


The Man and the Monster

by Ainikki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (I know it sounds far-fetched), Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Attempted Murder, Bastardy, Because of Reasons, Bestiality depending on how you look at it, Casifer, Child Abuse, Dark, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Gothic, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Horror, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lucifer just wants to watch the world burn, M/M, Major Character Death (temporary), Minor Character Death, Murder, POV Alternating, POV Bobby Singer, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Jo Harvelle, POV John Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Pregnancy (no mpreg), Repressed Society, Slow Burn, forest fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 46
Words: 165,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ainikki/pseuds/Ainikki
Summary: A long time ago, a forest fire devastated the town of Lawrence. Though they have worked to rebuild, the threat of the forest remains. Those brave enough to go in--Ellen, Jo, Dean and Bobby--claim there's nothing to fear, and perhaps there isn't, until Crowley wakes something that should have stayed sleeping...





	1. The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> By way of explanation: The end of season 12 happened, and I need to cope…so I decided to write a fic to make me feel better. There's this strange, dark little Czech movie that I love called _Panna a Netvor_ ("The Maiden and the Monster"). It's a retelling of _Beauty and the Beast_ written and directed by Juraj Herz many years before I was born. I saw it the same year as _Supernatural_ aired (2005), and ever since they've been linked in my head. I've looked for ages trying to find a good or at least adequate fan fiction mix-up representation of these two things that I love so much, but I've turned up nothing that satisfies me. It looks like I'll have to write it myself. 
> 
> That said, there are some great _Beauty and the Beast_ /SPN fairy-tale fusions out there, with especial kudos to garrisonbabe's  A Worthy Hunter , riseofthefallenone's [ East of the Sun, West of the Moon ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912454), and Carver Edlund and Zerda's [ See the Sunrise ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2455970). All are fantastic tales based around the _Beauty and the Beast_ theme, but they weren't the story I wanted. _Panna a Netvor_ is unique. There's nothing else quite like it. I hope to capture some of that specialness here. Also, while I take _Panna a Netvor_ as a source, I am not a slave to my material. Even if you've seen the movie and all of SPN, there will be significant surprises for you.
> 
> Though _Panna a Netvor_ is rated somewhere between PG-13 and R, it hints at some fairly disturbing stuff, including murder, cannibalism, date rape, child abuse, character death, animal cruelty, and all-around terrifying family dynamics, all of which will be explored here with as much bravery as I can muster. I will add tags as these things occur. Don't say you weren't warned…also, just because I write about it doesn't mean I condone or approve of it! Be kind to one another.
> 
> Link to _Panna a Netvor_ online:  Panna a Netvor 
> 
> Cast of Characters:  
> John Winchester, a successful merchant specializing in rare and overseas trade  
> Mary Winchester (née Campbell, deceased), John's first wife, a gardener with a secret  
> Kate Winchester (née Milligan), John's second wife  
> Dean Winchester, John and Mary's eldest son, a hunter, a gardener, and a bit of a recreant  
> Samuel (Sam) Winchester, John and Mary's youngest son, the town clerk  
> Adam Winchester, Sam and Dean's unemployed half-brother  
> Robert (Bobby) Singer, a widowed and destitute butcher  
> Garth Fitzgerald, Bobby's apprentice  
> Gordon Walker, a butcher  
> Victor Henriksen, Gordon's apprentice  
> Jessica Moore, a schoolteacher  
> Jody Mills, a seamstress and flower seller  
> Ellen Harvelle, the town midwife and healer  
> Jo Harvelle, her daughter, a tender of horses and woods guide  
> Lord Crowley McCloud, an upstart foreigner with a stolen title  
> Lady Rowena McCloud, Crowley's mother, a witch  
> Ruby McCloud, Crowley's daughter, Sam's (past) lover, a witch  
> Alistair Rolston, one of Crowley's men  
> Lucifer, a demon that was once an angel  
> Castiel Milton, a forgotten man and a monster

##  Chapter 1: The Forest

 

There's a dawn without a sun. Gray light drifts over the horizon, providing just enough light to illuminate a narrow path cutting through dark woods. A wolf howls somewhere in the distance, then another, and then the whole pack; their lorn cry pierces through the trees like a thorn through soft skin. Jo sits up from her bedroll, instantly awake, and shivers as cool mist settles on her clothes, which are already completely soaked. She looks around in the half-darkness, sighting the forest path a few yards ahead of her. Her eyes cast about for her mother; then she recalls that she left her at home this time. Grimacing at the grim sky, Jo stands, stretches, folds her bedroll and ties it to her back. She collects her linen traveler's pack and settles it over her shoulders; then she walks over to check on six sturdy plough horses tied to a stand of withered trees.

She is in the retinue of a procession of trade wagons, hired to keep the horses fed and quiet. The wagons are laden with rich cargo from the huge cities to the south, all bought and paid for by the merchant John Winchester for the occasion of his youngest son's wedding. Jo had taken a peek at some of the extravagances in the wagons the previous day: lace and pearls, paintings and china and wine and gemstones, all manner of food and drink. She had stolen a single peach and eaten it greedily, secretly, the day before. There is no pitted fruit where she's from—apples don't count—and the idea that anyone could purchase such luxurious goods casually, for a single celebration, while she and her mother barely scrape by makes something angry rise in her chest.

However, she hadn't been hired to be angry. She'd been hired to tend the horses—and possibly to ward the wagons against the dark thing that lives in the woods.

Not that anyone has ever seen this thing. People have disappeared, though, in the past. A lot of people; enough that Jo and her mother, Ellen, have gotten suspicious enough to investigate. They've been through these woods plenty of times, though, and no harm has come to them or anyone with them. If something evil lives here, it's hidden deep and isn't looking to be disturbed.

Jo reaches out to pet the roan mare nearest her gingerly, plucking an apple out of her pack with her free hand. The horse stomps in impatience, and Jo feeds the horse absently, shivering again as her exposed skin slicks with moisture trapped at ground level by the dead dark trees.

The forest is creepy, no doubt about it. There's no end to it, for one thing, until close to the edge; the trees press in close everywhere, branches twisting high overhead and cocooning Jo and the party accompanying the wagons on every side. Even if there'd been a sun today, it would have been impossible to see through the canopy of twisting wood overhead. It's autumn, nearly winter, and aside from a few hardy pines all of the trees are leafless and appear dead. In this dim light, the skin of the trees appears blackened, bruised, and it makes the enveloping darkness press in with menace or malice.

There's a reason they call this place the Black Forest, but as far as Jo can determine, there's _only_ one reason—the obvious one. She and her mother have passed through dozens of times and have never come to harm. Witches and ghosts and demons and monsters tend to live in town with their victims, not in the trees, no matter what popular opinion or folklore might say.

Jo pulls her white-blond hair back into a wet and messy bun, then collects the feedbags for the horses. Crowley will want them fed and groomed well before they move. She reaches down into her boot as she lifts the feedbags up, checking to make sure her silver knife is still there. The forest is safe, but it never hurts to take precautions.

 

***

 

Jo finishes preparing the horses and packs away her gear, munching an apple and some overnight oats as her own breakfast. She walks idly over to the campsite where Crowley and his men have pitched their tents; a dozen or so black cloth structures dot the uneven landscape. Embers of dying fires send smoke overhead, making the gray of the sky seem thicker. Dead leaves shush under Jo's bare feet, gleaming wet like silver.

Jo comes to a halt in front of the nearest tent, crouching in front of a fire pit and blowing on the ashes. She finds two embers hot and feeds them with twigs and a few dry leaves, coaxing flame to return.

  She is reaching for a log to feed the tender fire when Crowley emerges from his tent, lacing both hands through his lank and thinning hair. "Hell of a fog," he mutters, and sniffs at the sky—what can be seen of it, anyway. He catches sight of Jo and snaps his fingers at her. Though she tenses, she pulls herself upright and into a neat curtsy fast enough—hopefully—to avoid his wrath.

"You, horse wench," he says. "How soon can we move out?"

"Whenever the men are ready, my lord." Jo's mouth lifts on the last word in what is almost a smirk. Crowley isn't actually noble, but bought his title from the destitute Singer family after the death of their matriarch and the resulting failure of their brewery. No one treats Crowley McCloud with real respect—behind his back. Defying him to his face has earned a number of pretty girls some nasty scars, though, so Jo doesn't press her luck around him.

If put to it, she could probably give as good as she got. Dean had always told her so, anyway.

"Mother!" Crowley calls in an exasperated tone. "Are you decent?"

Lady Rowena McCloud emerges from her own tent a few yards to the left, stretching extravagantly in a nightgown of white damask. A ring of moisture around the hem weighs it down, revealing its bulkiness on her lean frame; clearly, it had been scrounged from someone else's closet. Her red hair is rumpled; all the curls are on one side. "Me?" she asks Crowley incredulously. "How dare you suggest such a thing."

"We move in half an hour," Crowley says, not rising to her banter. "Eat and dress and get your shit together."

"Well, that's no way to talk to a lady," Rowena huffs. She stalks back into her tent, nearly tripping on the nightgown as she goes.

Crowley tsks. "That woman is going to be the death of me."

Jo crouches before the awakening fire again and tries not to smile.

Packing preparations are gone through quickly. Though Jo tends the horses, she does not usually ride; aside from the hitched horses, only Crowley and Rowena have mounts that need further attending to. Crowley's wagon men are crass and rude, but efficient; today Jo only has to slap one of them for the others to get the hint.

"Unmarried doesn't mean available, asshole," Jo spits to a red-faced bald man named Alistair. He appears thoroughly pissed, but that's not Jo's problem.

They're on the road before Crowley's half an hour's grace is up, but the time hasn't improved conditions any. The path is scarcely visible ahead, and Jo has to keep to the clean edges of it so that she won't stumble. Sheets of moss cling to the trees on either side of the track, soaking her further as she passes under. Even Rowena, draped in her fur coat, appears to be shivering.

They reach a T-section in the path. A low cliff lies to the north of them, curving downward into a ravine like a jagged scar in the landscape; Jo hears water burbling below. A low stand of thorny shrubs blocks the ravine from full view; further on, the trees thin out, and she catches a glimpse of light and sky.

 Jo realizes, with a start, that this place is entirely unfamiliar; she's never been here before. This part of the route is new to her. She takes a deep breath and takes it in, trying to sort out which direction to go. If this is a ravine, they must be near the Morava river; its tributaries feed into the forest, but she doesn't know which way to go to strike the main course of the river.

She takes a deep breath and feels the cold metal of her knife pressing against the skin of her ankle, but that is scant reassurance. She looks up at Crowley to determine if he is equally lost.

"This isn't Black Rock," Crowley mutters. Rowena yawns next to him, looking bored. "We must have missed the turn."

Jo nods to herself. That makes sense. These forest pathways did sometimes twist together, and with the fog and semi-darkness of the day, it would be easy to miss their way. There is no need for her to be concerned—yet. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and points east, toward Lawrence. "That's the right direction," she says, and she's sure of it. It takes more than mist and sunlessness to turn her head completely in the woods. If they're near the river and coming from the south, they need to turn east for home.

Crowley spares her a brief nod and checks his horse, guiding it toward the right-hand path. "That's right. We'll keep going." He adjusts his sodden hat with a tight gesture, then pushes forward. Rowena follows with her fur hood drawn up over her face. The wagon train turns at painstakingly slow speed to follow them, wheels turning in the mud.

Jo is tempted to steal another peach. Guiding travelers is one thing; guiding cargo takes _forever_. She keeps pace with Crowley and Rowena, staying a little behind them to guide the first team of horses. The thorn barrier rises up on the left side of the path, growing thicker like a wall of forbidding.

Somewhere beyond the ravine, the wolves start howling again, the high-pitched whines echoing through the trees like a call—or a warning. One of the horses starts; Jo soothes it easily, but not soon enough to prevent Crowley from whipping her hand and face.

"Hurry up, horse wench," he says. "What are you here for, if not to keep them complacent?"

Jo says nothing, but imagines flaying him in her mind. Slowly. She rubs at her cheek; her hand comes away red. Her mother will be none too pleased with her when she gets home. With any luck, it won't scar.

The day drags on, becoming chilly and wetter; the men behind Jo are all splattered head to toe in cold wet earth, their white tunics and dark leggings taking on deep layers of caked-on mud. Around midday it starts to rain: a misty, miserable drizzle that leaves Jo's hair frazzled and voluminous where it escapes the tie. Many of the men toss their hats aside; the weather is so terrible that they're no help, and all the hats do is attract more water and mud. Even the wagon coverings become sodden and filthy. Jo's filthy herself, but (she hopes) still recognizable; she's looking forward to a bath when she gets home. Judging by her calculations of where they'd camped the previous day, they should be able to reach Lawrence by nightfall.

A little after noon, the trees to either side thin out a bit, though the hedge border that has been congruent with their path since the T-section remains as thick as ever. After a few hundred yards of light tree cover, the forest track gives way to a road of ill-paved stone: functional, but worn and uneven with disuse. The horses pitch up onto the stones from the mud gratefully, and Crowley's men all appear relieved to have found an actual road.

Some part of Jo is also relieved, but not completely. This path is still new to her. She never knew there was a road here.

When all the wagons are positioned on the old stone road, Crowley calls for a brief halt. The mist doesn't seem too bad here, and the men take the opportunity to rest, eat cold rashers and talk shit. Jo eats another apple and pets the poor shaking horses. They're tough, but this journey's been a long one, and without stabling or much by way of fresh food. Jo suspects she'd be miserably shaking, too, if she thought she could get away with it.

As the men eat, black birds gather overhead, cawing hideously. At first, it's only two or three birds, but as the men sit and eat, that number swells to a dozen or more. The birds remain circling in the sky for a while—Alistair gets an impressive shit stain on his bald pate—but eventually settle in the trees and on the ground, likely looking for food.

From the sky, the birds had looked like crows; when they land, Jo sees they're ravens. Their tails are like wedges, and they're huge: the biggest is easily two-thirds her height. She's never seen a dozen ravens in one place before—hell, she's rarely seen more than two in one place, unless there was a huge carcass to feast upon. The men stand up, waving their hands and attempting to be intimidating to scare them off, but the ravens don't budge.

That…is concerning. Jo doesn't fear the ravens; they don't attack humans unless they're nesting and a human is stupid enough to threaten them. Their appearance here, though, means there's food nearby—or will be soon.

Jo looks around for Crowley and Rowena, and sees them still on their horses at the edge of the camp, right where the road becomes the muddy forest path. They are leaning their heads together, talking. Jo can't hear what they're saying from this distance, but Crowley is pointing to the hedge on the left side of the path animatedly. Rowena does not appear impressed.

Jo creeps closer and hears Crowley say, "…not on the map. But there's a road on the other side of that hedge that's going the right direction."

Rowena nods sagely, but her expression is closed and pinched. "I don't think it's been used in quite some time."

Crowley's shoulders jerk forward; his horse shifts unsteadily from foot to foot, snorting. "It's the fastest way, and I'm sick of this sodding mud. Can you burn it, or not?"

Jo swallows heavily. Even with the woods this wet, a fire big enough to blast through that hedge sounds like a bad idea. She is about to say something when Crowley's whip catches her arm; she twists it around the limb before it can cut in too deep, tempted to rip it from his hand.

"You, wench," Crowley says, yanking her forward. "Turn the horses and get the men over here. We need a fire."


	2. The Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Dean's the only one of the lot that's really employed; either Sam or Adam could stand to work for pay—assuming work suits them. John fucking Winchester, rich as the stars thanks to his landed wife, treats his kids like little princes. It's a wonder they're not all insufferable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I'm vegetarian, so this chapter physically hurt to write. Fortunately (for this story, anyway) I grew up in a household where most of the adults were hunters and subsisted almost entirely on meat and cheese…
> 
> Also, poor bitter Bobby. :( He'll cheer up in later chapters. Maybe.

Bobby Singer lifts his axe to the chopping block with one hand and the chicken with the other. He positions the chicken on his low block, shifts the axe, and cuts the head of the chicken cleanly off in a single swipe. There's scarcely a struggle; the chicken makes no sound, but continues twitching once the head's off. Bobby's grip on the chicken's neck becomes slightly slick with blood and internal fluids, but he doesn't drop it; he waits the seconds it takes for the body to become still. Then he shifts the carcass to his table and begins plucking.

Next to Bobby's open-air stall, another butcher, Gordon Walker, settles a whining sheep on its back in an empty manger. The animal keeps whining as its throat is cut messily, inexpertly, and Bobby tsks to his chicken. He can't offer the animals he butchers much, but a good clean death is something he feels that they're owed. Unlike most butchers in these parts, Bobby raises his own animals. Just 'cause he sells--and eats--them doesn't mean he doesn't respect 'em.

The squeals of more sheep, pigs and goats rise out of the air around him, mingling with the atmosphere of smoke from curing fires. The air of the market has always felt thick to Bobby, as if he is breathing in all of humanity's filth and sin in one place. He considers making Garth fan him while he works, but decides against it. Wouldn't do to get uppity in this town.

Though in Bobby's case, a few indulgences might be permitted. His family—what little remains of it—is landed, and that had been respected before Crowley had struck his deal with Ed Singer for half the Singer brewery and a share its profits. After that went south, Bobby had become a butcher, falling in with some old friends—and old customers. Though Bobby has never been in danger of going hungry (or thirsty), he's been on the edge of homelessness before, sleeping outside with his animals and even selling a barn or two to make ends meet when his wares aren't chosen frequently enough.

Bobby looks up from his plucking, trying to find Garth in the milling crowd. He finds the boy (eighteen or not, taller than him or not: Bobby will never consider Garth grown) slicing open the belly of a pig to remove its entrails and not-strictly-edible bits for use in sausage. "Hey!" Bobby calls. "Git over here, idjit."

Garth completes the removal of the pig's organs efficiently, but he displays the same tendencies toward messiness that Gordon exhibits, getting brine and juices all over his hands and grubby apron. Bobby often wishes for Gordon's apprentice, the Henriksen kid. That one is focused; a born butcher, he'll be better at this than Bobby in a few years, assuming Gordon doesn't work him into the ground first. Bobby had taken on Garth only as a favor to Dean, and most days he regrets it—at least until Dean brings his wares to market.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby catches a glimpse of Sam Winchester, Dean's younger brother. It's hard not to notice that kid when he's near; he's taller than damn near everyone else in town and hasn't had a decent haircut since his brother'd held him down and chopped the excess away the previous year. He is wearing his threadbare brown Sunday suit, with leather patches on the elbows and knees and leather loafers on his feet. His white shirt collar peeks above the brass suit buttons. It's not Sunday, which means that Sam's either just been to church—unlikely, given his family's general atheism since Mary's death—or that his other sets of clothing aren't presentable. His open forehead and easy smile make him appear untroubled, but Bobby notices the hunch of his shoulders and the slight twitch of his jaw; he is distracted by something.

Sam pauses near Bobby's stall and waves in a friendly sort of way. Bobby nods in his direction, but doesn't take his hands away from his chicken. This is market day and he's busy; Sam will understand. He hears Garth greet Sam with an enthusiastic handclasp and a loud, "Long time no see, Winchester! How's that awesome brother of yours?"

"Which one?" Sam asks facetiously. While Dean's reputation in town is a bit checkered, Adam doesn't have one at all. He hasn't really done much with his life, yet—for good or ill.

Sam shifts on his feet, taking a step away from Garth. Bobby looks up and follows the direction of Sam's gaze, not in the least surprised to see him eyeing up Jessica Moore, Lawrence's new schoolteacher up from Moravia. Long blond hair is plaited neatly to the side of her heart-shaped face, her kerchief blown up by the wind. Her market dress is white and blue, making her tanned skin appear burnished and golden. The dress frames her waist to good advantage, though it is cut modestly enough to be appropriate for church. She stands at the fruit stalls on the outer edge of the market, admiring an apple; Bobby sees that her smile is white and even and kind.

Every boy in town is after that one. Bobby spares a thought for his angel, Karen—in the ground now, alas, for nigh on twenty years—and shakes his head a little. Sam doesn't have a snowball's chance with Ms. Moore. Besides, he's already set to marry Ruby McCloud, Lord Crowley's feckless, fickle daughter—though it looks like someone needs to remind him of that.

Bobby sets Garth to the task of sharpening their knives; he doesn't want to put one of his sheep through the agonizing death Walker had subjected his animal to today. Next to him, Henriksen has built a fire to cook Walker's butchered sheep and has already settled the carcass on a spit. The smell of roasting mutton seeps into his nostrils, and his stomach growls. He looks at Garth as he fumbles their knives—cutting clean through the pad of his palm when he dries one with a clean rag—and wishes he had himself a better apprentice.

It isn't that Garth lacks potential; he's not a bad kid. Doesn't cheat, steal, or show up late usually, and he works steady, but not carefully; his sharpening demonstrates that, as does his twitchy way with animals. Dean has been working with him, teaching him, and he's improved, but if Bobby had his druthers he'd take Dean over Garth any day. Hell, any of the Winchester boys. Dean's the only one of the lot that's really employed; either Sam or Adam could stand to work for pay—assuming work suits them. John fucking Winchester, rich as the stars thanks to his landed wife, treats his kids like little princes. It's a wonder they're not all insufferable.

Bobby surveys the job he's done on his chicken, smoothing ridges in the meat left by ingrown feathers. And then, as he stands up to hang the chicken in his stall, John Winchester himself strides past Bobby not three feet ahead. He cuts right through the middle of the market, calm as you please.

Bobby remains absolutely still, observing John as he approaches Sam from behind. Sam whirls before he can catch up, and they face one another, Sam almost half a head taller than his father. With his cheeks flushed and his head down, though, the height advantage doesn't seem as significant, and it becomes even less so when John's hand bites into Sam's right shoulder, yanking him forward so that they are very close together.

"Where you been, boy?" John asks, and Bobby is close enough to hear the bitter acerbity in his tone.

Sam gestures around him with both arms. "Market," he says. "We need chicken."

"No, we don't," John says, letting Sam go and stepping back. Bobby can't see his face, not from this angle, but judging by Sam's, John is none too pleased. "Get yourself home. I won't ask again."

"But Dean's coming, and—"

"—and you can see Dean at home."

Sam nods slowly and turns. He looks up and sees Bobby, then comes over, stepping carefully over some of Gordon's bloody mess to stand in front of the butchers' stalls. John says something low and threatening in Sam's ear, but Sam does not appear troubled by it. "We really do need chicken," Sam says. "Venison's great and all, but I'm getting sick of it."

"Fine," John snaps. "Buy a chicken and come straight home."

"Can I just come back with Dean?"

"Is that what I said?"

John walks away, his capelet blowing cold air in his wake. Sam shivers a little and offers Bobby a tentative smile.

"Hey, Sam," Bobby says genially. He proffers the newly plucked chicken. "This one's fresh. Let me wrap it for ya."

"Thanks," Sam says, then stares at his feet.

"You okay, son?" Bobby asks as he hangs the chicken up. When Sam doesn't respond immediately, he tells Garth to bring him his paper and ribbon. Garth complies, and Bobby yanks the chicken off the hook again, wrapping it carefully, hoping Garth will someday miraculously pick up on his example.

He's tying the last knots when Sam finally speaks. "I uh," Sam says, inarticulate; Bobby looks up and finds him bright red. "It's for someone."

"Someone I know?"

"Maybe. Have you met Ms. Moore?"

Bobby frowns. "Didn't know she was fond of chicken."

Sam's blush is becoming a fiery thing. Bobby hands over his wrapped package gingerly. "Best of luck to you, Sam," Bobby says. "I'm lookin' forward to your wedding."

Sam swallows heavily and accepts the chicken with both hands. "Thanks, Bobby," he says without making eye contact. "Tell Dean hi for me if you see him."

"Will do," Bobby says. "Now git before your dad comes back."

Sam nods, Adam's apple bobbing, and cuts his way through the crowd, his shoulders slumping. Bobby watches him go, thinking how much he resembles a kicked dog—a giant kicked dog. Oh, John had always provided for his kids materially, but other indulgences hadn't been permitted, and Sam seemed to always bear the brunt of his father's ire. Bobby remembers taking the boys in—just Sam and Dean, then—for a month after Mary's death, and he wonders how much of their father was lost to them at the same time as Mary. Even as a young man, John's inflexibility and grim determination had manifested in his acquisition of wealth and power; after Mary's death his focus had only sharpened. He and Bobby had never been friends, exactly, but John had respected Bobby before loss had reduced him to two steps above beggary.

Bobby spares a moment to think about the child Sam was, and who he could have been if his mother had lived. He knows Sam is moving toward a terrible decision—breaking off his betrothal with Ruby—and he fears the consequences if that happens. Not consequences for himself, necessarily, but for the town. The Winchesters had the run of things now, but before that it had been the Singers and the Campbells, and each of them had fallen to despair and destitution over matters of love—and taken much of Lawrence down with them. Bobby feels too old to weather another crisis of the kind.

He twists his thoughts towards work. Garth seems to sense his mood and keeps his mouth shut; Bobby only speaks to correct his technique, and feels a headache moving behind his eyes as the sun rises high overhead.

It's getting near midday before Dean finally makes an appearance. He strides into the market calm as anything, like he owns the place—like his father, cured of anger. He's still wearing his forest gear: a weather-worn gray cloak pulled haphazardly over a starched white tunic, brown leather pants, and muddy boots. He sets up his stall across from Bobby's, giving the man a short wave; then he vanishes to retrieve his wares.

He doesn't have much today; with autumn coming on game is becoming more scarce. He sets his bow and quiver to the side of his stall and begins work putting up dried meat, pelts, leather, and tubs upon tubs of fragrant herbs that he harvests from the forest. Bobby catches a strong whiff of thyme that makes his stomach growl. He should ask Dean for some tips on where to find that stuff. Not that he does much harvesting—aside from Dean, Jody, Ellen and Jo, no one goes far into the woods for anything. Mary Winchester's death had been chilling to the town. No one ventures in alone now, and the few that do never move far away from the road.

Dean does, though. He goes into thickets after game and into copses to gather plants and mushrooms. On the single occasion Bobby had asked Dean about his harvests and the danger of the forest, Dean had shrugged. "Nothin' in there I've seen that's worse than a bear," he'd said, and he had meant it. The paralyzing fear of the forest caused by his mother's death seemed not to touch him.

As he finishes laying out his tubs and pots of herbs—dried and fresh, today—Jessica Moore wanders over to his stall. Bobby watches her breathe in the scent of the cooking herbs with an expression of rapture, though he is too far away to hear much of what they say to one another. He sees Dean nod to Ms. Moore in a friendly way, but Dean doesn't give her the same moon eyes as Sam or half the rest of the damn town. Bobby frowns. That boy really should settle down soon. Bobby knows his dad's been pressuring him in that direction—Hell, the whole of Lawrence has—but Dean shows no inclination of settling down with anyone. Cassie Robinson's move to Prague seems to have taken the desire for partnership out of him--or something else happened that the town doesn't know about

When Ms. Moore points to two tubs, Dean sets aside samples for her, wrapping their stems in a bit of paper before handing them over. She takes a strand of lavender and two huge, long sprigs of mint gratefully, inhaling their fragrances so deeply that she coughs a little. "Wow, these are strong," she says.

Dean offers up a wide and winning smile, all teeth. He says, nice and loud and with a pride that is justified if slightly forced, "Straight from the source, miss. A lot of others only sell theirs dried."

"And you grow these?"

"Yes, miss. Or I get them from the forest."

She offers him a tentative smile in response to his good humor and politeness. She scans the stall, then asks, "Do you have any flowers?"

Dean keeps smiling, but it's a frozen thing like a rictus or a grimace: nothing genuine or warm about it. His face drains of color rapidly. Bobby knows it's a question he hasn't been asked in many years.

Everyone knows why Dean Winchester doesn't sell flowers.

Before Jody Mills, Mary Winchester had been Lawrence's flower seller.

"No, sorry," he says. "Jody or Ellen usually have some, though." His smile remains fixed.

"Thanks." Ms. Moore pays Dean, oblivious to the inner turmoil she has caused, and Bobby thinks that Dean deserves better. Sam deserves better. He resolves to keep a close eye on both. He's familiar with the consequences a single mistake can create.

 

***

 

At sunset, market day officially ends, though some people do linger past nightfall. After selling most of his fresh herb stock and a few wolf pelts, Dean had packed up, leaving the stall across from Bobby empty for much of the rest of the day. Dean had left Bobby with another friendly wave, a slurred, "Be seein' ya," and Bobby had nodded with their own secret understanding, passing along Sam's regard before he'd left. John didn't like Dean—or any of his kids—associating with Bobby; not anymore. Dean still meets him every month at the _Hound and Whip_ , Lawrence's largest and dodgiest bar, to shoot pool, drink, and talk, but otherwise they didn't interact much. Not because they don't like one another—Bobby sometimes catches himself thinking of Sam and Dean as his kids—but because more contact would make all their lives difficult.

Bobby stays out until the first stars appear clearly in the sky; then he lets Garth go and starts packing up his own stall. The whole street has gone quiet; he wipes down the movable shelves and cupboards and takes down what little remains of his prepared meats, wrapping them in paper so that he can have them as his own supper when he gets home. He sets aside a cut of mutton for Garth as well; the kid is too skinny for his own good.

His cart is folded neat against the side wall of the building behind him; his meat is on his cart, and his hands are clean—as clean as they'll get until he's able to wash them in the river. He's ready to go home. He places both hands on the cart and pushes, its wheels whirring noisily on the road's bumpy gravel.

The crickets chirp and jump around him in the dark, and their keening almost makes him miss the noise of the door opening behind him. He stops, and turns in time to see Jessica Moore silhouetted in the doorway in gloom, her golden hair and white-and-blue patterned dress unmistakable even in the low light.

Bobby remains still as she steps out onto the street and crosses over to one of Crowley's stables, off to the side of the town square. There is a ladder suspended from one of the windows, leading into a hayloft. Bobby watches as Ms. Moore climbs up the ladder to the loft, her hair coming loose like a bride's, spilling over her shoulder like liquid sun in the red twilight.

Bobby turns away, but not in time. He sees Sam Winchester follow her up the ladder, swallowed into the dark.


	3. The Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought of marriage restores Dean's focus on Sam—specifically, Sam's fuckup and how he's going to fix it. Just 'cause Dean couldn't be fully accepted because of his birth doesn't mean Sam's kid is destined to the same. He'll think of something. He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, it looks like another Czech movie, _Pysna Princezna (The Proud Princess)_ is making its influence felt; it's a movie about a gardener king, a proud and haughty princess, and a singing flower that acts as a benchmark of change. I'm not doing this on purpose, I swear, but I the details just seem to fit! Also, this is the first chapter from Dean's point of view.

Dean pulls the purple potato out of the ground and surveys it with satisfaction. The skin is clear of faults; a quick squeeze verifies its ripeness, and the earth seems to cleave away from it, leaving looking clean as if he'd washed it. He'd wash it again anyway, but he feels happy with this crop as it is. He's never tried out purple potatoes before this.

At least they give him more satisfaction than his purple carrots. Sam had gone through a purple phase as a kid and would eat nothing but those and blueberries for six months, so he never really wants to see one of those again.

This side of the garden houses the vegetables: potatoes, the last of the tomatoes, sweet onions, regular carrots, and the first crop of spinach; sometimes he gets corn and beans but the summer had been too cold and wet for them this year. The other side houses the herbs: basil and lavender, sage and thyme and coriander, valerian and mint all in their own pots along the side. Above the garden plot to either side, two ancient eating apple trees rise overhead, their highest branches nearly intertwining, providing the garden with partial shade.

The garden hadn't always looked like this. His mother had planted daisies and pansies and tiger lilies and wisteria, raspberries and roses: sweet kind plants that were sometimes hard to grow, but worth the effort to see her smile. Dean had loved the raspberries; summer used to leave him with as many as he could possibly eat, and he recalls hot days with cool water and berries and the smell of the lilies unfurling into the sun.

Dean pauses with his hand on his spade and remembers weeding with his mother in the garden, her golden hair spilling out of her kerchief as she dug the soil loose. The trees had been shorter then—less prone to lying on one another—and he remembers leaning back into one as his mom had crouched to his level, reached out with both grubby hands and hugged him tightly. "If you keep gardening with me," she'd said, "someday, we'll teach flowers to sing."

They never had. She'd died when Dean was four, and ever since flowers had done nothing but remind him of her in a way that tugged at his chest and the corners of his eyes, painful. He'd even allowed the garden to lie fallow and neglected for several years, until puberty hit and he'd needed a way to get some alone time away from his father and brothers. Sam would help him sometimes, of course, but it wasn't the same. Sam had never helped mom in the garden. Sam had never grown flowers.

Dean places one hand against the eating apple tree nearest him, over the place where his initials are carved, with Sam's crude carving just under his on the trunk. The garden now is a utilitarian thing. It feeds them and gives them fresh herbs for cooking and healing, no more. It is useful and efficient, and Dean has a certain sense of pride in it, but he cannot love any garden without flowers.

Most of the time, he doesn't think about that. He is thinking about it today because Ms. Moore had asked him why there were no flowers in his market stall. He thinks it a cruel question, but she probably didn't mean it that way. New in town, and all.

Dean places his harvested potatoes in a new clean sack of burlap, then gathers up his tools to be put away. He doesn't need much at this time of year: the spade, his weeding "fork," as Sam calls it, his gloves, and a medium pair of shears he keeps at mirror shine and razor sharpness. Nothing needs to be pruned right now, but the impending end of summer means he keeps them ready.

He gathers his tools to place them in the shed, then feels a solitary drop of water hit the back of his neck, shocking and cold. He sprints to the garden shed and shuts his tools away quickly, then retrieves his potato sack.

The single drop of rain gives way to a deluge, and Dean is half-soaked before he gets inside, using the servants' entrance at the bottom of a long wooden staircase. It's dark in here; the single window is a piece of oiled parchment tacked to a wooden frame. He hears music drifting down from the stairs as the door shuts firmly behind him: Ruby or Jo playing harpsichord, the scales steady and soothing. It's not Kate; Kate can't play worth a damn—in fact, she's worse than Dean, who is terrible—and besides, she's probably not back from her shopping trip in Prague yet. Dean shakes his shoulders out and leans against the door, now closed, and drinks in the feeling of being safe and dry inside. He removes his hat and long linen apron, both soaked, and hangs them on wooden pegs near the door.

He is about to remove his gloves for cleaning when he hears the music from upstairs stop abruptly: a melody played without a conclusion, reverberations hanging tense in the air. Voices drift down to him—John's booming baritone and Sam's higher-pitched tenor, which is on the edge of sounding shrill.

Dean rolls his eyes. They're fighting again. He wonders what it's about this time, but truthfully, it doesn't matter. They'd been at each other's throats ever since John had denied Sam an opportunity to go south to study. John won't hear of it until Sam is married, and Sam's not allowed to get married before Dean does, for reasons that have always been inexplicable to Dean. He takes a few steps into the lower level, approaching the stairs, straining his ears to hear.

"…I gave you an _order,"_ dad says, stressing the last word with all the authority of his military experience behind it.

"Yeah," Sam replies, and his voice may be soft, but it rings like steel. "And I said no."

Silence. Silence that lasts, making Dean hold his breath in. He has one foot on the bottom step, ready to race up and rush between them like he always does; then dad speaks again. Dean stills, one foot on the step, one gloved hand on the railing, breathing slow and quiet so that he can hear.

"This isn't negotiable, Sam," John says. "If you don't do as I say, you're out."

There's a gasp. "You're throwing me out? Are you insane?"

Dean's up the stairs so fast that he doesn't remember moving—he wills himself to the top through sheer panic and opens the door to the receiving room with a loud bang. John is startled so much that he doesn't reply to Sam; not immediately.

Dean is scarcely out of breath when he asks, "Who's moving out?"

After a brief, intense pause, John says, "Your brother, unless he does what I say."

Dean looks between Sam and John, back muscles tightening with worry; Sam can't hold his eyes. Dean understands that the common threat John makes to throw Sam out it genuine this time. "Damn it, Sam," Dean says under his breath. "What did you do?"

"I—" Sam stops.

John doesn't look like he's about to take pity on him anytime soon, so Dean prompts, "Come on, Sammy."

Sam looks at him, the edges of his eyes red, and he nods. "Jessica Moore is pregnant."

Dean's chest collapses inward, all breath let out, and he leans against the wall, smearing mud against the baseboards. "Oh."

Another silence. John breaks it, voice cold: "You understand the position we're in, Sam. You're getting married next month. The arrangements are already made. If you claim this bastard—"

"Wait," Dean cuts in. "Are you saying Sam has to marry Ruby? Still?"

Ruby and Sam had been childhood friends, but they'd never been very good for one another—Dean recalls having his hair nearly bleached off during one of their more memorable pranks—and they'd never had much romantic attachment. If Sam had found someone better, Dean didn't blame him for trying it out. Knocking someone up, though—

"Yes," John says. "It's arranged. We can't back out."

"Of the wedding, sure, I get that," Dean says. "But can't he marry Jessica instead?"

"No."

"But if we're paying for the wedding—"

"Crowley's paying half—"

"Then I'll pay the rest!" Dean says, practically shouting. He's moved away from the wall, between his dad and Sam; Sam is half-behind him. "I'll cover it. I'll buy Crowley out."

Dad gives him a speculative look that Dean hates. He feels like he's being sized up like a piece of meat. "You don't have that much."

Dean has been squirreling away money for years—to run away, to escape—but he hasn't told anyone about that. "I do. Name the price."               

And John names a sum that is near eighty percent of what Dean has saved.

"Make the arrangements," Dean says. "I'll cover it. You'll have the money tomorrow."

John looks back and forth between his sons, his jaw set in a tight line. "All right," John says. "Tomorrow." To Dean he adds, "And clean yourself up. You're tracking mud all over the house."

Dean turns—without looking at Sam or dad—and opens the door back downstairs. It slams against the wall harder than he'd intended, but he has no time for finesse. Kate will probably remark about the hole in the wall when she gets back. He hates that bitch.

He hears Sam following him down the stairs. "Damn it, Sam," Dean says, throwing his garden gloves into the corner. They make an appropriate splatting noise against the wall. "What have I always told you about keeping your dick in your pants?"

Sam reddens instantly and stares at the grubby floor. Dean hasn't had time to clean it this week, and the mud caught in the grooves of the wood reminds him of entrapment, snares; hidden pressures and responsibilities that were never chosen, only accepted. When Sam doesn't say anything, Dean says, "It's done. You _have_ to marry her. That’s the only way out of this."

Sam nods and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I know. I will."

Dean sighs. "At least there's time," Dean says. Five or six months, maybe, until the baby is born; they can hide Jess away for longer so that she won't be ridiculed, so that the baby won't be thought a bastard. _So that the baby won't be like me_ , he thinks. Unwanted, unplanned, sneered at behind people's backs.

Fuck those people, seriously. Fuck fate, too, while he's at it. Half Dean's reputation in Lawrence is set in inalterable stone because his father had failed to control himself. Dean's slept around some, sure, but he knows enough not to get anyone pregnant. Herb lore is good for that, if nothing else, and Ellen had told him more about sex and women that he'd ever cared to know (not that he ever told her so). After the first blush of adolescent curiosity with sex, he'd become content with his own company most of the time. Sex is fun and all, but the stakes are too damn high, and he's not ready to be married just yet, thank you.

The thought of marriage restores Dean's focus on Sam—specifically, Sam's fuckup and how he's going to fix it. Just 'cause Dean couldn't be fully accepted because of his birth doesn't mean Sam's kid is destined to the same. He'll think of something. He has to.

"I need to take care of some things," Dean says. Specifically, he needs to dig up his cache and determine if he has as much as he thinks he does. "You'll need to get a suit made—talk to Jody—and get a ring. I'll take care of the rest."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says. He looks up at his brother with the wide, soft eyes of a child, and Dean thinks two things almost instantaneously: first that he's too old for this, and second that Sam is too young. Will always be too young.

He crosses the remaining distance between them and pulls Sam's hand into his. He squeezes, making Sam look at him, believe in him. He drops his hand and straightens his tools, putting everything away clean and neat like mom would want. After that, Dean goes to talk to his father.


	4. Wedding Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica looks up from the harpsichord, into the mirrored top. Her reflection is distorted. "Do you hate me?" she asks.
> 
> Dean doesn't hesitate: "No. Tell you the truth, I'm relieved. Sammy's gettin' married before me, so now Adam can go if he wants. Nothin' in either of their ways, now." Dean looks away from her, out the window at the garden. "I just wish it didn't have to be like this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst hit this chapter hard. I was not kidding about the child abuse.

Preparations are gone through quickly. Ms. Moore has no family in town, so it is agreed between them that she will stay with the Winchesters until the wedding. Dean cleans and airs out the guest room for her—the room that was his mother's, before—and he mutters and curses under this breath the entire time. Sam keeps trying to help clean and only gets in the way. Adam wisely sits in the corner chair by the fire, nose buried in a book, performing a good show of being completely oblivious. Dean isn't buying it, but he appreciates the kid staying out of the way.

Dean prefers to handle situations like this as much on his own as possible. He knows he snaps like his dad does when he gets mad; the difference is that he doesn't enjoy doing it. He remembers the first time his father yelled at him; remembers the fear reflected in his mother's eyes as if she wanted to snatch him up and flee. He doesn't want to make anyone else feel that way—not even Ms. Moore, who should have had the sense to keep her legs closed.

He doesn't blame Ms. Moore. Not really. Sam's puppyishness translates to doggedness. Whatever Sam wants, he gets. Dean chalks it up to him being the baby for so long, raised by his brother and father before Kate. Sam is the motherless child, and Dean knows he probably indulged him too much, but he can't help that now.

The wedding can't take place until the guest list is finalized and the goods from down south come, so they have a few tense weeks of living together. More accurately, time is spent living around one another; Dean opts to pretend everything is normal and that Sam didn't just cost him a huge chunk of his future.

Dean loves his home and his garden, but it's a painful sort of love. Since he'd come back from Bobby's as a child, he'd known he'd need to get out somehow—a new town, a new land, a new life. Something fresh and untinged with sorrow, if such a thing existed. The money could have bought that for him. 

Well, he'd have to save up again. That's all there is to it—and hope that Sam doesn't screw up again too badly. Or—he swallows at the thought—he'll have to wait until his father dies. The inheritance would certainly buy him whatever kind of life he wants. But he doesn't want to rely on that. As far as he's concerned, that money's for Sam and Adam. He can take care of himself.

Except he can't, really. No matter how convincing the front he puts up, he's never been skilled at self-care. His willingness to sacrifice all for Sam means that there's not much left for himself, and what little there is gets effaced day by day: by Jessica, by the wedding date approaching like a terrible eclipse that turns the moon red and eats the sun.

Jessica has less cosmic effects on Dean's life as well. Though he doesn't think of himself as particularly attached to a routine, Jessica's presence in the Winchester home wears him down steadily, a little piece at a time. Finding his mother's portrait tucked into the corner of her old room, face to the wall, had made him pause for a full ten minutes, staring while trying not to stare. Until he'd seen her face again, he hadn't realized how many details he'd actually forgotten. 

Cleaning out his mother's room—alone, because sometimes his dad is a fucking coward—had hurt most, but Jessica's presence everywhere—extra dishes in the sink, herbs missing from the garden, flowers on the table—jolts him with every change. Even her presence, when he is used to absence, eats at him like a splinter lodged in his thumb: irritating, a constant annoyance, but he can't just rip her out like a splinter. 

On the night of Jessica's arrival, the dressmakers arrive. John or Sam (but more likely John) must have made arrangements with them immediately; the dress they bring looks mostly done to Dean. It's off-white, embroidered with white vines and leaves at the bodice, hem and sleeves; the fit is a little bulky but not too bad. The dressmakers spend the entire day pinning, basting, and clucking over Jessica, and Dean finds it all vaguely sickening. The dressmakers themselves don't approve of Dean, either; one—Missouri—tells him to wipe his feet sixteen times.

Yes, he counts each time. And each time, he rubs his booted feet on the carpet. Kate'll let him have it when she comes home, but he doesn't care. This is still his house, goddammit. Jessica's here on sufferance. Once she and Sam are married, they're moving. Though Dean will miss Sam terribly, a small, unacknowledged part of himself can't wait for all of this to be over.

***

Three nights after Jessica's things arrive, Dean sits at the table with his father. They're home alone; Sam and Jessica are wedding shopping, Adam has gone to the library, and Kate is still in Prague, or perhaps she decided to go to Venice again; Dean doesn't really ask anymore. He wishes they could have put Jessica in Kate's room; it's not like Kate is ever home anyway.

Dean nurses a beer between two hands, using a chipped porcelain stein instead of the glass ones more common in the house. His mom had used it to water house plants, back when they'd had house plants. Another thing Dean doesn't like about Jessica is that since she's gotten here, virtually everything that reminds him of his mother now calls to him like a beacon. He hasn't thought so much about his mother in years, and being forced kicking and screaming to think of her makes him unable to focus, or sleep. Drinking helps him pass out, but it also makes him foggy when he wakes up. Sometimes he forgets how old he is; his childhood and adult selves mesh together in the early stages of wakefulness. It's like being both the fisherman and the net simultaneously.

John has whiskey in a flask. They drink in silence, the heavy heat of the end of summer hanging over them like a pall. They'd banked the fire earlier in the day, so the only light in the room comes through the glass window on the opposite side of them, filtering through Kate's purple curtains.

When John breaks the silence, Dean's surprised; drinking in silence is marginally better than drinking alone, and neither John nor Dean typically use this time to talk. "Where'd you get that money, boy?"

Dean starts, but doesn't look up. Looking his father directly in the eye will only lead to confrontation. "Saved it," he says, eyes fixed into his beer as if it were a pool of water.

"You didn't borrow it?"

"No."

"Steal it?"

Dean almost looks up because the insinuation is insulting, but he doesn't fall into the trap. His jaw sets in a firm line. "Of course not."

Dean hears John sigh; the chair he's sitting in creaks. "And you gave it all to Sam. Why?"

That question is easy. "He needs it."

A pause. "What were you saving it for?"

For a split second, Dean is tempted to be truthful. _I want to get out of here. Far away from this place, from everything I have to do that I didn't choose. Far away from you._

But he doesn't say it because if he got into a fight with his father right now, he'd lose.

The first time he'd fought his father, he'd been around seven, just after the fire. He'd taken Sam and fled into the forest, thinking that if they could only get to Prague or Moravia or someplace south, someplace east, the world would be kinder. Maybe they could be farmers or gardeners; maybe they could find the sea and be cabin boys: he didn't have a detailed plan. He'd just wanted to get away from a life in ashes.

When his father had found them—with Jo, who had encouraged their running away—he hadn't been beaten or punished. Instead his father had taken Sam in one arm and Jo in the other, leaving Dean to walk home behind. He hadn't spoken to either Sam or Dean—hadn't so much as acknowledged their existence—for a week. When he finally had, it was to scream through the walls about how badly Dean had disappointed him.

That is when Dean had learned not to look at his father when he was in a certain mood. He couldn't run away now; he wouldn't make it far, and Sam still needed him. Adam didn't seem to need anyone, but Dean knew that his invisibility in John's eyes hurt more than the kid let on.

Standing ground means stonewalling indifference. It's his best defense, and he hates it.

He finally answers—carefully, softly: "I don't know. Thought maybe it would be useful for Sam's school."

John shifts in the chair opposite him, but doesn't speak. Dean feels a bit of the tension in the room deflate. He takes the risk and looks at his father, who is regarding him with a slightly creased brow, chin resting in one hand. "You're the one that taught me. Family comes first. Before your own needs." That's true in principle if not in demonstration. Dean knows John's sacrificed a lot for his children, but privately, Dean thinks a lot of his humanity got put on the same sacrificial altar. 

John nods. "God knows I've put a lot into this wedding. Do you think it will make Sam happy?"

"I hope so."

John grunts acknowledgement, and Dean's anxiety collapses. No fight. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, either. But one is coming. He feels it.

***

As the wedding day approaches, it becomes more difficult for Dean to avoid Jessica; she is always with Sam. Dean sees her getting her dress pinned and straightened and endlessly adjusted; sees her trying on his mother's jewels, trying on his mother's ancient makeup. He sees her get her neck measured for a strand of pearls. 

Dean keeps his mouth shut, but inwardly he seethes. He doesn't resent Jessica coming in and using his mother's things, exactly; it is more that he has so little of his mother left, and it is like Jessica is using her memory up. Dean fears that in the end there'll be nothing left but what he guards in his memory. 

A week before the wedding, Dean finds Jessica in the parlor alone. He knows Sam and John had gone into town to speak with merchants and investors in town about the wedding; John had been forced to dip into business funds, and some of John's partners were worried about the expense. Even Dean feels a bit alarmed. Just how expensive is getting married, anyway?

Jessica is sitting at the harpsichord when he enters, playing a simple song that he recognizes from one of the handful of times he'd been to church. It's a wedding march. He stands behind her, listening to her play in silence. He shifts a little to see her better as she plays, and the floorboards squeak beneath his feet.

Jessica looks up from the harpsichord, into the mirrored top. Her reflection is distorted, but even so, Dean can tell she's crying. Before he can speak, she says, "I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?"

"No," Dean says. Jessica plays the harpsichord far better than Ruby or Kate, and his mother hadn't played it. Harpsichord playing is as close an activity as they have to neutral ground. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she says, too fast. She wipes her eyes on one starched sleeve, and her fingers find the keyboard again, moving hesitantly.

Dean turns to leave. Crying is a private thing, and later she'll probably be mortified at being caught that way. He may not like her much, but it's not like he wants to see her suffer.

His back is to her and the door is open for him to leave when he hears her ask quietly: "Do you hate me?"

Dean doesn't turn around, but he also doesn't hesitate: "No. Tell you the truth, I'm relieved. Sammy's gettin' married before me, so now Adam can go if he wants. Nothin' in either of their ways, now." Dean looks out the window in the wall to the left, at the garden. His shoulders tighten and relax. "I just wish it didn't have to be like this."

Jessica says, "I think I understand."

Dean stays still until she starts playing again. Then he goes downstairs to the garden.

***

Dean comes home late. After his talk with Jessica, he'd felt on edge, so he did what he usually does when that feeling creeps up on him: he spent the day in the woods. While he doesn't have much to show for it in terms of game, he'd stumbled into a thicket of raspberries and now has two buckets full, plus a full stomach, so he's in a good mood.

When he stumbles up the stairs with two wicker baskets full of berries, the room he enters is crowded. The dressmakers have returned, though only two of them stand near Jessica; the rest are folding cloth into bundles or sticking pins into cushions. They're cleaning up. 

Missouri shoots Dean—specifically, Dean's footwear—a reproachful look, and grabs a handful of berries from one of his baskets. He's about to snap at her when she points to Jessica, standing in front of the mirror. Despite himself, Dean looks. 

The dress is done—even Dean can see that. Before, it had hung off her in places and the edges had been left raw; now, though the dress is fairly simple—no decoration except the embroidery—it fits her well. More than that, it suits her. Sam is beaming at her from across the room as if she were a newborn or a kitten, and his energy is infectious. Dean steps into the room fully, sets his baskets down near the door, and goes to pat Sam on the shoulder. He gives Jessica a warm smile. "You look beautiful," he says, and he means it.

"Really?" Jessica's question is honest and open; her eyes are a little wet. She looks scared. Dean spares a brief glance at her stomach and sees she isn't even close to showing yet. This wedding will be a respectable one. Jessica will still be respected. He'll make sure of it.

"Really," Dean says, direct and clear, and suddenly her smile matches Sam's.

It's nice to see, really. Sure, his brother may have fucked up royally, but that doesn't mean he can't still be happy. And Dean hadn't lied about not hating Jessica. She seems like a nice girl, albeit one that doesn't always make responsible decisions. Right now, in her white gown with her hair streaming loose and gold-white in the light of the window, she looks like an angel.

No—she looks like his mother.

Dean feels achingly old in this moment, as if his brother is a baby and he's just saved him from the fire again. In a way, he has. Dad had been all about punishing Sam and making him suffer. Thanks to Dean talking him around—and arranging the wedding from the ground up—Sam can still have a future.  
Maybe Dean can, too. 

He lowers his eyes at the thought. Futures are for people who can provide for them. He is facing down an endlessly long repeat of his present. No way out; not for him; not right now.

Maybe later.


	5. The Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready to see the monster? :)

Crowley's wet fire splutters smoke in all directions, making Jo cough. Most of the riders are carrying torches now, so soon she'll be able to smother the fire completely. She picks ash out of her hair distractedly, trying not to focus on the fact that more ravens are gathering.

The more she looks at the hedge, the more forbidding it seems. Though she tells herself to stop feeling like an ignorant kid—the forest is safe—it doesn't work. She doesn't feel safe. She's never been to the other side of that hedge, and suspects that whatever's waiting on the other side is bad news. No one in Lawrence had ever discovered the source of the fire that had killed Mary Winchester and gutted half the town, but Jo would bet even money right now that the source of that fire is close.

Alistair plops down inelegantly next to her, spattering mud as he hands her a torch. She grips it evenly and frowns a little at him. Once everyone has a torch, Crowley orders the wagons to back up single file, a task Jo helps with as well as she's able; the horses are unquiet. One, a shy roan she's known since childhood, fully rears in her harness; some of the wagon's contents are disturbed and go tumbling into the ravine far below, lost to the slow chuckling of the water.

Crowley curses, but spends little attention on the horses. He starts hacking at the hedge in front of him with his saber. One by one, his men follow suit, filling the still forest with the echoing clicks and pops of breaking branches. Above Jo, three ravens perch on a tree branch, but they aren't watching her; they're watching Crowley.

Deliberately, Jo keeps near the middle of the wagon train, near a lip in the ravine that isn't too steep. She's determined to escape if she has to. The hacking continues uninterrupted for a few minutes; enough time that Jo starts to relax, but not enough to make her want to get anywhere near the men destroying the hedge. 

All at once, every one of Crowley's men stops, like puppets whose strings have been cut. Jo sees them all drop, some of them falling forward into the hedge, more falling back, flat on their asses. She would laugh if it were just one or two of them, but it looks like only Crowley, Rowena and Alistair are left standing. Her feet take her closer to them of her own concern, curiosity outweighing caution.

"Get up, you lazy gadabouts!" Crowley shouts. "Haven't got all day, here."

Moving slowly, careful not to touch the hedge, Jo turns one of Crowley's men over. It's Rick Roman, usually called Dick because of his charming personality. He's breathing, but unresponsive; out cold. His pulse is strong, but even when she chafes his wrists, he remains completely unreactive.

"Get back," Jo says, then realizes she'll need to pitch her voice louder. "Get back! I think the hedge is poisoned."

Some nerve poisons worked this way, though most of the ones she knew of were airborne, not passed on by plants. She spares a brief moment of panic to wonder if there is, indeed, someone letting off poisoned gas on the other side of the hedge, then backs away herself, still calling for the others to follow her.

"Shut up, horse wench," Crowley says, continuing his attack on the hedge. "Remind me to dock your pay later."

Jo rolls her eyes and catches a glimpse of the ravens overhead again. Their attention is a fixed and focused thing, and Jo stifles the urge to run. Where can she run, really? Across the ravine? She has no idea where she is, or how to get back to the main road from here—and she'd be alone. She's stuck here, with these idiots.

Then, as if from far away, she hears the echoing sound of hooves on stone.

Crowley stops hacking once he hears it. "Quiet!" He yells. The men stop; the woods become entirely silent: there are no crickets, no bird calls, no wind. The hoofbeats get louder, and at first Jo can't tell if it's reactionary—seeming louder because everything else is quieter—or if the source is getting closer.  
Inside a minute, she knows that the horse is getting closer, and that it is coming from the other side of the hedge. There is no stone road on this side for a horse to run up, and the sound is coming from the wrong direction even if there were. If they're lucky, maybe this is someone from another village; one Lawrence doesn't know about because of the isolation imposed by the forest. If they're unlucky, though—

Jo flicks her eyes between Crowley, the ravens and the horses. Her hands move to her mother's Hoodoo protection charm; she mutters a prayer as she fights to hold herself still. She'll be safer with people than alone against whatever's coming.

The hoofbeats are coming faster now, louder; so loud that Jo is surprised that they can't see the rider. The hedge is still thick and the mist of the morning hasn't cleared, but something should be visible at so short a distance. Then, right when Jo thinks the rider must be right on top of them, the beats slow down and stop. Jo hears the clacking of a shoe on sheetrock, and then nothing again. Stillness, quiet.

"Who goes?" Crowley calls. There is no response.

Jo takes a few steps backward, positioning herself near the safest part of the ravine.

"Who's there?" Crowley calls again, and again there is no response. "No one's home," Crowley says. "Keep hacking." He raises his sword again to cut away the hedge, when everything—the hedge, the sword, Crowley's clothes, and anyone standing near him—catch fire.

Jo freezes. Fortunately she is standing far enough away that she feels only heat, not flames. Crowley and his men scream bloody murder, their cries echoing. In front of her, she hears Alistair calling for someone to turn the carts, turn around, run, do something, but she has gone utterly blank.

Suddenly Crowley's man—Dick Roman, the one that had passed out from poison—stirs and coughs, sitting up. He seems to appear to her out of the ground, and the shock is enough to get her to move. She helps the man up and drags him backwards, out of range of the fire and towards the shallow path afforded by the ravine.

The wagons are in chaos: each horse tries to run a different way, and when Jo stops to soothe one it seems that three more scream in its place. Dick loses patience with the mess and cuts one of the horses free of its wagon harness; he mounts bareback and cuts around the wagons, vanishing in the gloom.  
Jo thinks that isn't a bad idea; she would do the same if she knew where she was. However, the person on the other side of the trees is also mounted, and it is easier to evade a mounted adversary on foot—at least in this forest. Instead of stealing a horse, Jo climbs a tree, perching with the ravens as fire and water and panic break the men below.

The sound of clinking coins catches Jo's attention. When she locates the sound, she gasps: one of the wagons has pitched backward into the ravine, spilling its contents onto the rocks and into the water far below. That's not all; each wagon is set close together, and this one had been backed up by another, which is also being pulled backward in the confusion. If someone doesn't do something, soon, all the wagons will wind up in the ravine—horses and goods lost.

Jo almost moves; she does. But at the last second, she stays put. There is something down there that can set the forest ablaze. She is witnessing another conflagration. So far, the fire is confined to the hedge and those caught right next to it; as long as there continues to be no wind, she doesn't have to worry about it spreading to the trees. She stays put.

Minutes pass like hours. Tragedies are like that: appallingly swift, over so soon, but their impact echoes through time. Jo will not forget this day, assuming she makes it out alive.

Screams and shattering pull her awareness down, but she keeps her eyes fixed at her own level. To her surprise, the ravens have not moved—not even to peck at the men and horses who have fallen and aren't moving. Their black eyes gleam red in the flames, like hellfire and destruction. Jo shivers.

The ravens extend in a long line evenly spaced in the trees, all looking in the same direction. They are waiting for something, Jo realizes. What?

There is a cry below her, and Jo sees one of Crowley's men floating facedown in the black water flowing past directly under the tree she's under. Two more men fight on the ravine's edge, one man grasping a large red pouch; they're fighting over it.

"Stupid," Jo mutters. This is a disaster, and the idiots are just making it worse.

One of the ravens gives out a low call, and Jo looks in its direction, expecting to find whatever it is the ravens were anticipating. Three more ravens take up the same call: a warning, or a salutation. But she sees nothing, and the other ravens remain still. The only change Jo notices is that it's becoming quiet—very quiet. Silent.

The screams have stopped. There are no more raven calls. She is safe.

Jo collapses against the trunk of the tree supporting her, her head falling to her knees as she hugs herself and shakes. Her eyes close as she breathes to steady herself. When they open, she finds herself staring at one of the ravens. 

None of the ravens have moved, and they are all looking directly at her.

She hears a rush of wings behind her and feels the bough she's perched on creak horribly, as if it's just accepted more weight than it can handle. She turns, expecting to see another bird—

\--and in some ways that's exactly what she sees. The thing behind her has huge, black, multipartite wings that gleam red in the light of the dying fires below. Its head is curved and set low into the shoulders, and she hears an answering call from its throat, like the one the ravens had given before.

The resemblance of this creature to a bird ends there. The curved head connects, neckless, to a human torso, but there are no hands or feet, only talons so sharp they appear waxed and etched. The creature has no skin, only feathers—and its talons are covered with blood.

This is what the ravens had been waiting for. Jo doesn't scream; there is no time to scream, and no one will come to help her if she does. She has seen monsters before, dozens of them, but never one that looked like this. The thing stares at her, head twitching, and that is when she realizes that though neckless, the creature's face has mostly human features: cheekbones, a forehead, patches of pale skin. A giant beak, hooklike and black, extends from its jawline—but its eyes are human.

Human, and blue; the color of a clear sky, and the expression in them is curious, not violent. She risks a step forward, making the tree branch groan under her weight, and the thing hisses, lashing out with one clawed arm. Jo's dress is rent open, blood spilling across her chest, but her heart's still beating. Breathing raggedly, she backs up, finds the tree's trunk, and shimmies down, feeling bark and branches cut her skin as she all but freefalls to the ground.

A swooping sound comes from above, and she sees the shadow of great black wings rise above the tree, blocking the sun. Then the ground rises to meet her, and she sees nothing else.


	6. The Search

Sam wakes up a little after midnight to the sound of Lawrence's alarm bells. He's fallen asleep at his desk again; since the wedding preparations had begun, he'd been taking long shifts and putting in extra hours for money. Aside from the oil lamp he'd foolishly left burning and one guttering candle, the room is dark. The gold leaf on the spines of the books on the shelves glimmers in the gloom.

Taking a breath to steady himself, Sam shambles to his feet, ducking to avoid collision with the low ceiling, and moves toward the door to see what the commotion is all about.

A small clutch of people is standing a little outside the door; some carry torches, others candles, and all are in their nightclothes. Sam joins them, towering awkwardly over them. Almost immediately, he spots the rider barreling into town like a bat out of Hell, and his feet carry him forward automatically to meet him. As he approaches, he can hear the labored breathing of the horse and the man's low cries of pain. Frowning, he steps out of the path of the rider, trying to identify who it is in the dark.

He is almost on top of the rider before he recognizes him: Dick Roman. One of the riders his father had sent for the wedding goods. "Whoa," Sam says when he's in earshot. The horse stops immediately, and Sam sees it trembling like a frightened child. He steps forward and soothes the horse carefully with his hands; he keeps his voice calm and steady. "Hey, friend," Sam says to Dick Roman. "Are you all right?"

No response from the man. His eyes are open, but it's like he can't see anything. Sam's furrowed brow deepens, and he pulls the man carefully off the horse. Dick makes no sound as he's settled upright on Sam's shoulder.

Ellen Harvelle, Lawrence's healer, steps forward with a bucket of water in one hand and a roll of bandages in the other. She wrings a wet rag over the man's head (getting Sam wet in the process), and he sputters, chokes; his eyes seem to focus for a moment. Then he passes out. "Get him to my place, Sam," Ellen says. "He's in trouble."

Sam knows. Dick's eyes are black and swollen, and there are cuts everywhere; Sam had scarcely been able to recognize him through the wounds and filth he carries on his person. Something terrible has happened. He follows Ellen, carrying Dick Roman's dead weight over one shoulder as he follows her back to what passes for Lawrence's hospital: a converted church with beds in cells and the chapel as a waiting area.

"Go home, Sam," Ellen says as soon as he walks through the chapel door. "He's in shock. I'll send for you when he can talk—if he can."

Sam nods and leaves. He's seen Ellen and Jo bring people back from worse condition, but it would take time. He should go tell Dean that one of the waggoneers was back—without the wagons.

***

Dick Roman's story, when Sam was able to piece it together, made no sense. Dick claimed that they'd been attacked in the middle of the forest by something able to conjure fire. In the confusion, the wagons had been lost in the river, and Dick had panicked, stolen a horse and run. The only other thing he remembers is a flock of ravens appearing out of nowhere just before the fire started.

"Dozens of them," Dick had said, and his eyes had still been black around the edges; all his bruises deep purple. "Like they were coming to feast."

"Did you see them eat anyone?"

"No. They just—sat there. Watching us."

Creepy, but probably not helpful. Sam had thanked Dick for his time, then gone to his desk at work. He sits for several hours doing research. He'd known the forest was dangerous, but this is the first time since his early childhood since anything had happened in it, aside from the occasional hunter getting snared in his own trap. This would require strategy, and planning—and, likely, Dean and Jo's help. He's out of practice when it comes to hunting.

Sam starts by making a list of all the monsters he knew of that could spontaneously conjure fire. It's a short list: hellhounds, demons, or spirits whose bodies were killed by it. He hasn't hunted with Dean since Jessica moved in, and even before that, since school had become so demanding. This time, though, he feels he needs to hunt, for his family's sake. Maybe they'll find something where Dick and the others were attacked.

Sam brings his list to Dean. Dean is busy stringing a new longbow, bare arms and chest glistening sweat; he pauses to dry off before accepting the list from Sam's hand. Dean's smirk as he reviews the list makes him hopeful. "Shoulda known you'd be on this," Dean says, but his air is distracted; his eyes move back and forth as if he were a bird in a cage. "You hear about the wagons?"

"Dick said all of them were lost."

"Yep." Dean looks up. "And all dad's money, too, more or less. Everything for the wedding is gone, Sam."

"Everything?" In the confusion Dick's arrival in town had caused, Sam had completely forgotten about the goods being shipped in the wagons. They don't seem that important to him. Goods are replaceable, aren't they? Far more so than people's lives.

"Everything," Dean confirms. "And if what the Dickless Wonder says is true, then no one else survived that fire."

Sam snorts at Dick's nickname. Dean had never liked Dick; he'd tried to drown Dean in the river when they'd been children. At least, that's Dean's story. Dick says Dean tried to stab him with a bone knife, and that he'd been retaliating—no one would ever know the truth, probably. "Do you really think that?"

Dean nods slowly. "Jo was with the horses. Ellen's freaking out."

Sam blinks. He hadn't known Jo had been lost--or even that she'd been along with the wagons. Jo is a capable hunter. She should have been fine. "So I take it someone's going to check it out?"

"Way ahead of you, Sammy," Dean says. "Ellen's not done with the creep yet, but once he's stable enough to walk, I'm going in with her and Bobby to look for survivors—and wagons. It's possible we'll find something."

"Let me come."

"No." The answer is immediate, inflexible, inarguable. "You should put in more hours at the office. We're going to be needing every red cent this family has—and soon."

He's tempted to fight. He wants to find Jo, and learn more about the monster--but apparently they're destitute, and he and his dad are the only ones with stable income. "All right," Sam says after a moment. "Be careful."

Dean's grin is wide and toothy. "Aren't I always?"

***

Sam finishes his shift at the clerk's office and waits for Dean and the rest of the search party at the edge of town. They return muddy, bedraggled, and Bobby is half-sick from cold; he'd fallen in the river. Dean and Ellen carry a man so badly burned that he's not recognizable, but he is breathing. When Dean sees Sam, he releases his hold on the man; Ellen grips the man more securely, letting out a low grunt.

"So you found them?"

Dean nods tightly and keeps walking, away from Ellen and Bobby and Sam. Sam spares a glance to the others, then follows Dean; for all that he's shorter, he can walk like a speed demon when he's pissed—or scared.

Sam walks behind in silence. He knows by the search party's appearances that the search had not gone well—one survivor (two when counting Dick) out of a party of a dozen is not a good outcome. And survivor clearly isn't Jo. When Dean reaches the house, he pauses, looking back at Sam. Sam sees an expression on his brother's face that he can't quite parse; it looks almost like fear, but it's too resolute for that; too set, like granite braced against an earthquake.

"You all right?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, fine," Dean says. His eyes are fixed on the house. They don't shift to Sam at all. Sam wonders what he's afraid of, but knows if he asks, Dean will shrug it off.

"What did you find?"

A muscle in Dean's cheek twitches. "I'll tell you when we're with dad," he says. "My tongue'll turn to sand if I have to say it twice."

They enter in, taking the stairs slowly, one at a time; Sam treads behind Dean and wipes his feet on the welcome rug, kicking his shoes off carelessly. Dean removes his shoes more carefully, then goes to his room to retrieve dry clothes. Sam enters the kitchen, finding John there alone.

He sits at the head of the large mahogany dining table, papers scattered into piles. Though there are many piles, all of them appear neat; Sam knows he gets his acumen and meticulousness for paperwork from his father, even if they have little in common otherwise. John looks up when Sam enters, then immediately back down at his papers.

_Yeah, nice to see you too, dad._

Dean comes in a few moments later, a clean rag scrubbing his wet hair dry. "Well," he says, dropping heavily into a chair next to their father, "it ain't good."

Dean, Ellen and Bobby had searched the forest for hours, but they had found no trace of the wagons. They had eventually stumbled across the stone path Dick had described, and it had taken them to a huge black hedge, and to the single survivor. "It was a massacre," Dean says. "Something killed them—killed them all."

"With fire?" Sam asks, remembering Dick Roman's story.

"A few," Dean says. "We brought Crowley back—he might live. The others were hit directly—looks like they didn't even have time to scream before the fire got 'em. The others—" Dean shudders, and Sam sits up straighter. Dean had killed his first Wendigo at fifteen. He didn't shudder easily.

Sure enough, he pulls himself together inside three seconds and goes on, "They were eaten. Their faces were gone, and most of their organs—"

"You thinking witches?"

"I would if there'd been any evidence of harvesting," Dean says. "I think whatever did it was just—eating. Hungry."

Sam swallows. Something hungry enough to eat a dozen men and women isn't something he wants to go up against. He attempts to copy his brother: attempts calm. "Dick said something about ravens," Sam says. "Did you see any?"

Dean nods. "Looked like hundreds, though it was probably only a couple dozen. At first I thought they were the ones that killed everyone, but they didn't touch us—and the gouges I saw were too big to be caused by even the biggest of them. And ravens favor meat, not--innards."

Sam's shoulders slump. As expected, this is bad news; however, Dean has brought back some valuable information, at least. Whatever they're hunting, it's human-sized or bigger, starving, and has some command of fire. 

"And you didn't find the wagons at all?"

Dean shakes his head. "Not even ruts. It's like they vanished off the face of the earth." 

"So everything's gone," John says. "That's all there is to it."

"Looks that way," Dean says. "Sorry, Sam."

Sam blinks. "What? Why?"

"All your wedding stuff was in those carts," Dean says. "And without it, you can't—" He stops. He can't say it.

"So we can't get married," Jess says. It isn't a question. 

Jessica's voice, timid at first then growing stronger, stuns Sam. She is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with one hand on the doorjamb, unwilling to come in. Her voice rises on the last word, as if she's fighting back some strong emotion—sadness, rage. Sam gets up to greet her, but she holds her hand out in a gesture of forbidding and flees. He hears her door shut at the end of the hall and swallows.

 

"It might not be as bad as all that," Dean says, trying to smooth over the rough edges of the situation in the way he always does, but Sam has no patience for that. 

"How is this not the most awful thing that's ever happened to us?"

Dean blanches, and Sam remembers that Dean actually remembers the forest fire that killed their mother and feels like an idiot.

"Well," Dean says, his voice hard, "this sucks, but I'm not going back." He pauses, biting the corner of his mouth. "I think Crowley tried to cut through the hedge. That made whatever it was mad." His hand clenches and unclenches, once. "I don't want to poke that thing. No amount of money is worth more lives."

Sam agrees in principle, but disagrees in practice. He needs that money to get away from Lawrence, to go to school, to get away from his father—

"We have to deal with the business before we deal with the wedding," John says, not looking up from his papers. "I'm not saying it's impossible, but your brother's right. If we don't have enough to support ourselves, we definitely don't have enough for a wedding."

Sam swallows, throat tight. "You can have all my savings," he says.

Dean nods. "And all mine. Together we should be able to keep the house, and maybe keep the business going. We can hold the wedding with whatever's left."

"If there's anything left," John says, muttering down at his papers.

"Hush, you," Dean says. "We'll make it work." His eyes flick in the direction of Jessica's room. 

Sam sighs. "We have to."

***

Sam spends a mostly sleepless and hopeless night alone. It's all very well for Dean to put on the Pollyanna act, but his father's tenseness and Dean's immediate sacrifice of everything he has left grates on Sam's nerves like an out-of-tune harp string. If his family keeps repeating the same patterns, he'll never get out of this place.

He wakes up before dawn and goes to check on Jessica, but she's not in her room. He takes a deep breath, shakes out his shoulders and decides to go for a walk around town; it's possible she's decided to do the same thing. He passes Dean seasoning their iron pots and feels a slight twinge of guilt that feels like responsibility. Dean does a lot for him. He should show his appreciation more. "Need help?" he asks sleepily as he pulls his coat on.

"No need," Dean says. "I'm good." The smudgy shadows under his eyes reveal his own sleeplessness, but he says he doesn't need help, so Sam leaves, walking into the cool and misty morning.

It's a beautiful morning for the end of summer: the sky is dark blue and cloudless, and there's a slight breeze from the west. A nice day to walk. It's still quiet in the center of town; Chuck Shurley, the miller, and Zachariah Milton are the only people he sees. He gives a casual wave to Chuck, but he's deep in conversation with Zachariah and doesn't look up. Sam hears what they're arguing about as they get closer.

"Doctor," Chuck says, "you know this loss is too much for the town to take. Can't you spare anything?"

Zachariah gives him a contemptuous look that borders on disdain. "The mill is not my problem. Pay me and I will furnish the wheel to you."

"And how will the millers grind their flour without it? Do you want Lawrence to starve?"

Sam chooses to adjust his focus away from that conversation. His family's in enough trouble; the town can wait.

Maybe.

He sees Bobby approaching from the opposite direction. When he waves, Bobby acknowledges him, turns, and falls into step a little to the side of him. 

"You okay, boy?"

Sam grimaces, looking down at the stones of the street. The sight of Bobby's compassion right now might make him cry. "Not really, no."

Bobby says nothing, but scuffs the path with one boot repeatedly. Sam sees that the sole is half-peeled and that his foot is mostly exposed. "Do you need—"

"I'm fine, Sam," Bobby says. "Worry about your own problems. And Lawrence's."

Sam sighs. "How bad off do you think we are?"

Bobby shrugs. "Nothin' I haven't seen before."

"When?"

"When I lost my fortune to Crowley, y'idjit," Bobby says. "Run on home. I saw your girl heading back there a few minutes ago." He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, makes him look at him. "And let Dean take care of it, if you can't. He's better at this shit than you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Bobby huffs a laugh. "Holler if you need anything, hear? I don't got much, but I'll share."

"Thanks, Bobby."

He's bad off, and the town may be, too—but he's not without help; not hopeless. There's still a way out. He'll find it.


	7. Shelter

John sits in his office at his desk, a gas lamp set to low flame on his right-hand side. It's raining again, late summer thunderstorms making everything sodden and humid, and he wants coffee or beer or both. He's been reviewing his accounts all day, and while the Winchesters aren't quite destitute yet, it's a close thing. "Merchants and hunters gotta be ready for everything," he mutters to himself. That is the one thing his two careers had in common: preparedness. He knows he can weather this crisis, but he also wouldn't wish it on anyone. It's been a long time—more than twenty years—since he's been in quite this much trouble.

He'd sent a letter to Kate that morning, recalling her from Venice; she'd be vexed but he couldn't help it. While Dean putters in the kitchen and the garden—nervous habits he must have picked up from his mother—John packs up all of his unnecessary worldly possessions to sell. The books, much of the furniture, and jewelry—not to mention the money—had mostly gone to creditors already. He doesn't have much left of value, but he can't support his children on credit indefinitely, and the next payment from his merchant vessels won't be coming for at least a month.

At least he still has his business, his home. At least he's not in the red, yet.

John Winchester is known as a ruthless businessman, a master planner, and tough but rewarding to work with, and he is determined to be a match for his reputation. Even the somewhat crazy risk he'd taken by passing most of the wedding goods through the forest hadn't bankrupted him.

Actually, it had.

John sits back in his chair, staring owlishly at the flame of the lamp. Dean had really come through—both for Sam's wedding, and for their family's financial crisis. Where the boy had accrued such large scale of coin he had no idea, but he is grateful for it now. Their lives might still be salvageable.

John stands up and moves toward one of the room's great closets. It is understood between him and Kate that he will not sell any of her things until she arrives; if he does, he can be fairly certain of divorce, which he can't afford right now, however appropriate it would be. With her arrival some two or three months distant, depending on which roads she chooses, he can't rely on any income from her things.

His own possessions amount to a dusty, moderately well-maintained collection of stamps, a few of his father's books that he is unwilling to part with, and some nicer old clothes that no longer fit. He also has his father's shaving kits; Henry Winchester had been something of a hobbyist and there were collectors that would pay good money for that sort of thing vintage.

He also has many objects that had belonged to Mary, his first wife. As he opens the closet before him, he discovers her wedding dress, everyday clothes, small photographs, jewelry: all neatly maintained and oddly dustless. He doesn't remember cleaning in here; Sam or Dean must have kept this collection neat.

In the very back of the closet is a portrait of Mary, half-life size in a gold frame. She sits in a high-backed red chair—one the creditors had taken, unfortunately—with curved wooden arms. The paneling behind her in the background compliments her skin; her work in the garden had made her brown as a berry from top to toe, save for her hair, which burnishes richly in the sunshine streaming in through the window to her left. The barest hint of freckles brushes her cheeks. There is a daisy chain around her neck, made to look like metal though John thinks it had been natural, when she'd posed. Her hands are clasped in her lap, dirty fingernails visible; the painter had been a realist and Mary had wanted her true self painted, not an ideal image. She does not smile, but regards John with a knowing, catlike look, as if she has a secret she refuses to tell.

The portrait is remarkably lifelike, and John stands staring at it for far longer than he intends. Mary's memory lives in his heart like a bruise on a peach: a weak spot that spreads and rots and touches everything. His next marriage, to Kate, had not helped him heal, and as he looks at Mary he feels something hard rise out of him—refusal, denial, anger—fear. Mary's death had nearly ruined him, the first time. He is in a similar situation again.

Though it is not her fault—this time—he chooses to blame her. He shuts the closet door, deciding he will sell all of her things. It's not like anyone will miss them, anyway.

***

The next morning, Dean confronts John as he is loading up their cargo wagon, shoulders tense, expression hostile. "What the Hell, dad?"

"What, Dean?"

"That's mom's stuff," Dean says, setting his shoulders in an inflexible line. "We're not selling that. It wouldn't be right."

John gives him a bored look. He's not surprised; Dean must be the one that's been keeping Mary's things clean and organized. Sam is too young to be stuck on his mother, and Dean is too young to remember what she'd done; to Dean, she had always been the angel of the house. He has observed Dean's awkwardness around Jessica. He should probably have seen this confrontation coming.

"It's not right for you and your brothers to be out on the street because we can't afford to keep the house," John says. "If she could save us with these things, it's what she'd want."

A vein pulses at Dean's temple, though he holds himself still otherwise; to an outside observer, he would have appeared perfectly calm. "At least let me keep something. One thing. So I can remember her."

He's tempted to say no. Mary had chosen her own fate. He should have told Dean the truth about her long ago. He knows why he hasn't: though he is a hard man, he does not consider himself unnecessarily cruel, and revealing the gory details of his mother's early death would qualify as cruel by almost any measure. So instead of saying no, he says, "All right. One thing."

Dean nods. "The portrait."

"No." That's worth too much. "Anything else."

Dean's pulsing vein is matched by a facial twitch that John has only seen when Dean is actually mad, but he's not afraid of his son's wrath. Dean has always been terrified of him—and determined not to show it. It's a pattern John recognizes, but it is too late for it to go unrepeated. Dean appears to be his strongest, most capable son, but he is the weakest: the most transparent, and thus easily manipulated and controlled. Simple. Only his mother and Bobby Singer had ever thought him particularly intelligent.

Dean sighs. "Fine. Her cameo."

John had almost forgotten that piece: among Mary's jewelry, he had found a small cameo portrait of her carved in porcelain. He digs through Mary's jewelry absently, untangling the cameo on its cheap chain, and tosses it to Dean. He catches it and nods.

John nods acknowledgement. He finishes packing the wagon alone. Dean watches, leaning against the house with an expression halfway between vengeful and mournful. After a few minutes, though, he disappears, and when he returns he is leading a pack horse, carrying its saddle and tack. While John fills up the remainder of the wagon, Dean hitches the horse up and feeds it an apple, making calming, clucking noises to it like a woman. He's been spending too much time around Jo. He should just marry her already.

John climbs up to the seat on the wagon unsteadily; Dean is there to steady him. "What road are you taking? Prague? Moravia?"

"I'm going through the woods to Budejovice."

"That's a stupid idea."

"Why?"

"Whatever got the other wagons will get you too. We couldn't find it. It's still out there. You'll be walking right into it—"

"No, I won't," John says easily, picking up the horse's reins. He has his map; he is sure of the road. He won't be pulled off-course.

Dean steps in front of the wagon, deliberately blocking his path. "How is you dying going to make any of this better?"

So dramatic. Too much like his mother, definitely. "Get out of my way, Dean."

They stare tensely at one another for a few moments, reams of information passing back and forth—Dean's tarnished courage, John's unbending authoritarianism—and Dean moves, albeit reluctantly, to one side. John snaps the reins, and the wagon lurches forward, wheel catching on stones.

"It's not safe!" Dean calls after him, but he ignores him. He'd made his decision the previous day, and he does not go back on his decisions. He waves to the doctor and a few others milling about in town, but he doesn't stop. Budejovice is three days away by cart, assuming he takes as few breaks as possible; he remembers a time when he could do it in two, and laments that old age kills from top to bottom and that he needs sleep to drive—he's not the man he was, and all the experience in the world could not make him so.

As he centers himself in a pair of ruts leading out of town, he glances backward to make sure his arsenal is packed. Well, Dean's; he hadn't kept his up-to-date, and most of Sam's things had gone to pot while he'd been away at school. Adam, curiously, does not hunt, though John had wanted to teach him with the other boys. Kate had objected, but not strongly. Adam had always preferred safety. He doesn't even cook his own meals because he doesn't want to risk burning himself. He's the closest thing John has to a daughter, and John resents the Hell out of him, though he respects him for having his own mind.

The day is a still one, and quiet; there are rarely people on this road, and all of them come from his own direction. No one lives in the forest; not anymore, though his father's house might still be in the trees somewhere, if the fire hadn't claimed it. John thinks that unlikely. The fire had consumed everything. Everywhere he looks he finds the memory of charred ash manifesting in blunted dead trees and short new growth. Every healthy tree is thin; not yet aged enough to form the massive tree-walls of his youth.

He finds the quiet peaceful, nearly soothing, though the increasing girth and height of the trees works to make him feel hemmed in. He’s getting to the edge of the wildfire damage, where the old forest starts taking hold again. The path runs clear and straight and reassuring. Even when large clouds appear on the western horizon, John encourages his thoughts in a positive direction. Budejovice is only two additional days away at this speed. Once there, he can solve a lot of his problems quickly.

The sun is setting over the hills before John takes time to stop, rest, and retrieve a cold ration pack from the back of the wagon. He unhooks the horse and grabs its feedbag roughly, wishing he could have afforded to take someone with him to care for the animal. Oh, he knows how—his father had been a breaker of horses—but right now anything that slows him down is something he sees as an obstacle. While the horse munches from its feedbag, John eats his own food grimly, mentally tallying how much his wagon haul will bring in and comparing that to his expense ledger. When he's done eating, he settles a halter over the horse and guides it to a shallow stream a few dozen yards off the road so that it can drink.

Once he's satisfied that the beast won't collapse on him in the next few hours, he re-hitches the wagon and continues on his way. Though it's getting dark now, shadows growing deeper where the leaves cast their shadows on the ground, he can still see, and he is determined to keep going as long as the road is visible.

The twilight shadows are black as pitch when, like a bolt from the sky, one huge raven lands in his path, making the horse shy a little, moving off-road. He glares into its inkblot eyes and frowns. Ravens and crows tend to be intimidated by humans—not to mention horses—but this one is looking at him as if it's planning to eat him for dinner. He reaches behind him for a weapon—a gun, a machete, something with a bit of range—but before he can grip anything, the raven is joined by one even larger landing on the wagon; another swoops overhead, so close that he feels the puff of air from the flap of its wings.

He remembers Dean telling him there were dozens of these things: too many to take on alone, even with the help of the horse. He kicks the horse forward; it squeals as it plows chest-first into the raven, which does not move and crunches on impact, blood splattering everywhere. The other two—both on the wagon—scatter, cawing angrily, and John keeps going, allowing the horse to pick the path because he doubts he'd be able to govern it at this stage anyway.

The horse takes John through a thicket of thorns that catch on his clothing, ripping a half-dozen tears before he is able to get free. Enmeshed in the thicket, the horse screams bloody murder, and nothing John can do will calm it. He spurs the horse forward angrily; it leaps over the next batch of thorns, yanking the wagon forward with a jerk that stuns John momentarily. When he comes back to himself, he sees that the thicket has given way to stony soil; the wagon lurches and nearly comes unhitched. John stops the horse with a bit more force than necessary, and pats its flank in appreciation when it obeys. He climbs off the cart to investigate the horse's connection to the wagon; both the hitch and the harness had pulled alarmingly loose on the uneven ground. John is fortunate that nothing broke—and that the wagon didn't upend itself.

When he tries to tighten the harness to the horse, it snaps. The horse, though skittish, does not bolt; John ties it to a slender birch trunk by the tattered leather remains of the horse's tack. He curses under his breath. There's no way for him to get through the forest, now. He could ride the horse back to town, get new tack and a fresh mount, but that would take time, and it's too dark now for him to turn back without losing his way.

John ties a feedbag carelessly to the horse's face, leaving it strapped to the tree. He rummages in the wagon for food of his own—noticing with relief that nothing seems to have broken in the crash—and retrieves his iron knife and his pistol loaded with silver bullets. Thus armed, he seeks out a better place to camp until morning.

As he looks up to the sky, trying to determine the time, a drop of water slams into his eye. The rain comes down cold, plopping and splashing on ground that is already slightly wet. Tall grass that is already turning brown from the season entangles his legs; he nearly falls. John shivers and moves closer to the tree where the horse is tied; the leaves provide some cover, though they won't be of much use if the rain becomes a downpour.

In the distance, he hears a low thud. When he looks up, he sees twin forks of lighting meet in the sky, which is still lit with twilight colors; as he watches, the rain becomes a sheet, insistent, and he hugs the tree he's under but it doesn't help. He needs to find shelter before full dark.

He unties his horse from the tree, but can't see well enough in the gloomy wet forest for mounting to be safe. The animal's warmth near him is some help, at least. He stumbles forward, unsure of where he is or even what direction he's headed in, but he's hoping that he strikes a road. He says a brief prayer to whatever gods are listening that he can save himself and the wagon from this storm.

Apparently the right gods are listening, because he's scarcely been wandering for ten minutes before he strikes a stone road. Forgetting for a moment why that's dangerous, he mounts up and trots the horse forward, scrunching his neck into his torso for warmth.

The horse stumbles over something solid and John checks the beast, looking down. He’s faced with the partially moldered corpse of a badly burned man. The smell, exacerbated by rain and heat, sharpens in his nostrils. He remembers, now, that Dean had told him to avoid the stone road; he’s arrived at the site of the massacre. He gasps, spurring the horse over the corpse.

The rain turns the stones under the horse's hooves silver-red as the sun sets behind them and lightning gathers overhead. In one of the flashes, John catches the sheen of metal. He spurs the horse faster, around a sharp and narrow curving of the road, and then he sees it.

A gate.

Immediately, John mistrusts it, but a moment later he thinks that’s irrational. After all, the search party hadn't found any gates, or homes, or evidence of people in the forest; a monster was unlikely to live on an estate. John checks his speed, approaching the gate warily as his light fails. It's rusted almost everywhere, but the metal that continues to gleam faintly beneath the reddish coating is black: likely iron. John dismounts, leading the horse right up to the gate.

He sees nothing on the other side but the stone road, brown grass and more trees. The iron reassures him somewhat; most evil things can't cross iron. His main concern what the gates are guarding. Though they've clearly languished a long time in disuse, they likely were built to keep something in—or out.

Well, he has his iron knife and his gun with silver bullets. He'll have to risk it.

The gates are designed to swing inward; they are sealed on the inside with a loop of chain. With rain stinging his eyes, John carefully unloops the chain and pushes the gates forward. There is resistance—he'd be shocked if there was none—but he gets them open wide enough to lead the horse forward carefully to the other side. He shuts the gates again, but leaves the chain loose; he wants to be able to get out the same way he came.

A crack of thunder sounds close: so close that he is temporarily deafened; his ears ring in the aftermath. He rushes forward and around a bend in the stone path. Silhouetted in lightning, he sees a low, squat, enormous building in the middle distance—not more than a mile away. Excited now, he mounts up again. The horse seems to share his enthusiasm for finding any sort of shelter in this storm, and carries him at a good pace.

When they're within thirty yards or so of the building, the stone path deteriorates; the horse's legs sink to the knees in mud, and John is forced to dismount again. It looks like this area had never been paved, or had had the stones removed: everything forward is overgrown, the trees moving in close, so he can't see how the building in front of him is shaped.

He treads forward cautiously, leading the horse by its mangled harness, until he is facing a crumbling staircase of stone. It has no railing, and the steps are moss-covered; he finds a sapling to tie the rather miserable horse to and climbs them. At the top, he can find no trace of a door: the wall in front of him is covered in ivy as far as he can see.

He is about to turn and find another way in when he hears a low creaking sound. A few feet away, in the middle of where the stone steps lead, a rectangular hole appears in the dark: a door opening inward.

John swallows and fights the impulse to run. His hand reaches for the iron knife instinctively. He scarcely dares to breathe.

Holding his breath, John waits for ten seconds, twenty, thirty. He waits until he's lightheaded, letting out all his breath in a burst. There is no movement from inside. He inches forward, knife extended, careful with every step. When he is inside, he leaves the door open—some light is better than none.

He sees no one inside. He extends the hand that is not holding his knife to the nearest wall; he follows it, tracing fingers that shake imperceptibly with every step forward. A thick layer of dust sticks to his wet boots; his path leaves streaks on the floor that he can barely see. He finds a corner and looks about him; useless, in the dark. "I wish I could see," he mumbles under his breath.

He blinks—once, twice—before he realizes that he is able to see better than he could before. On the other side of the room—perhaps thirty feet away; the room is larger than he'd thought—there is the low and subtle glow of fire.

The grip on his knife tightens. Now that he has light, he uses his other hand to go for the gun.

As he approaches the fire, he studies the floor for any telltale footprints of who could have built it, but he sees no evidence of the dust being disturbed, except by his own feet. The fire has been set in a grate that leads to a chimney; half-burned candles line the mantel. He grabs one and lights it, grateful for light and heat. He takes a few minutes near the fire to dry his clothes a bit, keeping his guard up. He breathes slowly, keeping calm. Someone or something is in here, but it has not harmed him yet. Once he is reasonably dry, he decides to go look for it.

A fluttering sound catches his attention, like the flapping of wings he'd heard when the ravens had attacked the cart. He groans internally, hoping that they hadn't followed him here; when he looks around, he sees nothing. He locates a window on the far right side of the room, so dusty that it had been all but invisible before fire revealed it. There is nothing outside, either.

Slowly, deliberately, methodically, John searches the rooms of this place.

From a distance, John had thought he approached a castle; now he sees he was mistaken. Though the outside face of the building is stone, the interior is wood, and the rooms are built low and comfortable—though not cramped, even for his tall frame—not rich, not gaudy. Of course, that might have something to do with the decades of dust that cover everything, but from what he can see, he's in a house, not a fortress.

As he skates through the rooms on wary feet, he sees no sign of anything living. No rats. No spiders. No insects. Nothing. The stillness unnerves him more than anything, but there is no obvious threat. That leaves magic as the explanation for the door opening, and the fire. John hates the thought, but iron is some proof against magic, if it's used against him. And for magic to be working, there must be a witch—or a demon. He doesn't see any evidence of one: no altars, no spellbooks, no blood or fluids.

His candle is burning down, and he is urgently thirsty and getting colder by the second. He decides to return outside for water, then shelter in this place. As he rounds the hall to the main room, he hears it again: the flutter of wings. But when he jerks his head in the direction of the sound, he sees nothing.

In his absence, a table and chair have been set before the fire. Both are covered with dust, but the dishes on them are clean, and full of food: venison, berries, grapes, cheese. There is wine in a rude wooden cup, and the utensils are set on a clean napkin, not the dusty table.

He pauses, resisting the idea of eating this offering. Like the fire, it had an unknown source. Though he reasons if the fire-builder had intended him harm, it probably would have killed him in his search. He has heard of hospitality houses: places spelled to give people shelter long after the spellcaster has died. He chooses, just for a moment, to believe in luck, or the right gods. He sits at the table, eats, and drinks. He has searched this place everywhere. There's no one. Nothing. No footprints. Whoever—or whatever—had once lived here, they are long gone. And if some memory of them should remain to feed and shelter John, well, then he'd be grateful and accept it--at least until he has reason to think otherwise.

After his meal, John allows himself to collapse in front of the fire and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses how the monster will react to someone being in its house...


	8. The Monster

Someone is at the gate.

Another someone; he should get that clear. There had been many visitors of late, though he doesn't know why. Mostly, he wants all of them to go away. The last time there were visitors, Lucifer had gotten mad and used their own fire to kill them all. Castiel understands his desire for aloneness, but redistributing the hedge and shoring up defenses had taken days—it still wasn't complete, technically.

Hence why the strange man had gotten in. There are still gaps in the hedge, caused by the fire; even demonic magic can't heal a scar on the earth that quickly. The man, a wagon and a horse had all breached the defenses; Lucifer has not told him of anything else, and Lucifer tells him everything. It's part of their deal.

So Castiel crouches in a tree, wet wings tickled by the wind, and watches the man press through the gate. It creaks as it opens, a hideous sound amplified by the stillness and the rain. The horse the man is leading appears wretched, on its last legs, and Castiel feels a pang of sympathy for the creature.

_I've got a hankering for horse meat_ , Lucifer says, his voice echoing on the walls of Castiel's mind.

"Shut up." He knows Lucifer has eaten his fill, both of horse and human meat, for the time being. They had not feasted like that in many years—not since the binding spell, and the fire that burned the world.

The man passes under his tree, but does not see him. Castiel is not surprised; most people don't look up, and if they do, he blends in well. More bird than man and more demon than either, he trusts his powers to keep him concealed.

What with all the visitors, though, he trusts to his concealment less than he used to.

The man approaches the mansion's front door, stumbling a little on the steps, and pauses before the seemingly doorless wall. Carelessly, as if tired, Castiel flicks one of his wings. The door opens, a tiny abyss of darkness in the failing light. The storm intensifies briefly, and Castiel shivers.

_You look like a drowned rat_ , Lucifer informs him cheerfully.

"So do you," he mutters, but he is not paying attention to his internal monologuer. He is focused on the man. He moves closer, jumping from tree to tree silently until he reaches the roof of his home. Then he glides to the ground and peers into one of the too-dusty windows, eager to see the man up close.

A man. He has not seen one—a living one, anyway—in a very long time: not with his own eyes. When the others had come, it had been Lucifer who had greeted them, not him, and he had seen them only through Lucifer's haze of hatred.

The spell that bifurcates his consciousness has rules, strict ones: in the sunlight, he is in charge. At night—or on days where the sun rises invisible—Lucifer reigns supreme.

Castiel often finds himself praying to the sun as if it were God.

_God?_ Lucifer snorts. _If you start thinking fairy tales at me, I'll punish you for it later_ , Lucifer says.

Castiel's posture wilts, his wings coming in to shield himself instinctively. Punishment is due no matter what he does. His brief days—what he calls "surfacing"—always cost him something. A little at a time, Lucifer is drowning who he used to be. If he concentrates, he remembers light, sunshine, people, blurry faces. He remembers the fire with a vivid intensity like madness; his body had burned in that fire, scarred beyond repair; there are gaps in his feathers where the skin never healed. Will never heal. He recalls a handful of names, including his own; Lucifer slips and calls him by it, sometimes. He recalls having hands like a human instead of his wings, though the memory makes him queasy, like slipping out of his skin.

He knows he isn't evil, but Lucifer is. He knows that by being this way, he has saved a lot of people pain. When he forgets these things, Lucifer will have him entirely, and he'll never remember what it was that he tried so desperately to save.

The man walks into the house warily—understandable, Castiel guesses—and moves carefully along the wall. Castiel's heart skips a beat when the man looks toward the windows, but they seem to be opaque enough to hide him. The man shivers dramatically, and Castiel frowns. He's cold himself, but not in any danger. People are weaker than him; cold people need fire.

_Don't help that asshole_ , Lucifer says before he can call on any of their powers. _He's trespassing. When I get control again, I'm killing him._

"No." Castiel says it softly, warily.

_No?_ A pause: pregnant, long, terrifying. Then: _All right. But don't make any plans to fly off anytime soon. I've got something fun planned for you._

Castiel swallows heavily. He doesn't defy Lucifer often; it is not always possible. But Lucifer shares his body, his capabilities, his mind. Neither one is capable of deceiving the other for very long—and Castiel has proven more obstinate than Lucifer on other occasions.

"Whatever you want," he tells Lucifer in a low tone. "Spare him, and you can do whatever you want to me."

_Ha!_ Lucifer's glee is childish; incongruous with his cruelty. _You've got a deal, buddy._

He wishes he understood why Lucifer enjoys hurting him so much. He figures it's just something else he's forgotten.

***

By the time the man completes his inspection of the house, Castiel has pushed Lucifer to include food and water as well as fire as basic necessities required to really "spare" the man. Lucifer grumbles as Castiel banks up the fire, cleans the table, and summons a lesser demon for food and drink. He takes the precaution of adding a strong dose of valerian to the wine; he wants the man to sleep without waking for as long as possible.

Castiel needs time. Though he's fairly sure Lucifer won't go back on his word, he has a way of adhering to their agreements to the letter—no more or less given than agreed to. Castiel exhausts Lucifer with stipulations: _Yes, I'll let him walk out of here; yes, he can have his stuff back; yes, I won't break his arms or legs or other bones, and would you shut the fuck up? You're making me angry._

At this moment he doesn't care if Lucifer gets angry. If he can make sure one man—just one—escapes Lucifer alive, it'll be the first step in repairing the damage he'd done to that wagon train. Though Lucifer had been wearing his transmogrified skin at the time, he does not experience any form of memory loss when Lucifer takes over. He sees everything as Lucifer does, but has no ability to move or act. He can speak, and Lucifer can hear him: in that way he has some influence, but no power.

Lucifer, as it turns out, quite enjoys hearing him scream.

When the man is well and truly asleep, Castiel ventures out in the rain to find the man's horse and supplies. The horse he takes into the mansion's old and disused stables; there is hay there, mainly as mulch for his garden, and a water trough that he leaves out to fill with rainwater. The horse nickers gratefully for the food, but its swollen gums and rubbery gait make Castiel think the poor beast doesn't have much time left.

_Let me eat it_ , Lucifer says.

"No," Castiel says, petting the horse between the eyes with soft primary feathers.

_You suck. I hate you._

"The feeling is mutual."

By this time, a few inches of rainwater have accumulated in the trough he'd left outside. He drags it back near the horse, awkward because of the wings. The horse taken care of, he goes in search of the man's possessions.

It doesn't take him long to find them; wings and excellent vision are two benefits that sharing a body with Lucifer grants him. The wagon is caught in a thicket a mile or so distant from the main gate. As he lands on a bare patch of ground, tucking his wings to avoid tree branches, Castiel spares a moment to be grateful for the internal hellfire that keeps him eternally on the edge of too warm; otherwise this weather would likely have sickened him by now.

Castiel yanks the front wheels of the wagon forward with his wings, but it doesn't budge. He inspects it closer and finds that the back two wheel are sunk more than two-thirds of the way in mud. He'll need a lever or some kind of abrasive material to shift the two good wheels forward and hopefully yank the stuck wheels loose.

_You're such a wuss_ , Lucifer says. _Let me try._

Castiel's eyes flick toward the horizon, where the last light of the sun gleams red and purple. Fifteen minutes until sunset, give or take. It would have to be enough: he had already made Lucifer promise not to harm the man in all the ways he could think of.

"You'll get your shot," Castiel says, giving the wagon another tug.

Lucifer clucks disparagingly at him. Castiel feels a sudden surge of strength from spine to ulna; his primaries tighten painfully, and the wagon pulls free with a revolting sucking sound. _I'm sick of the cold and wet,_ Lucifer says, voice taking on a petulant tone. _Damn mortals. I'm taking you home, asshat._

Castiel blinks—once, twice—and finds himself back at the door of the mansion, the wagon plopped carelessly next to him. He moves the wagon into the stable and begins unpacking the contents. There is not much of value: some money, some gems, an antique shaving set, clothes. There is something wrapped in canvas near the back of the wagon that Castiel removes carefully. He sets the canvas aside, revealing a portrait of a woman in a plaster frame painted gold.

"I need light," he mutters. A torch set into a bracket in the stable responds to his wish, and he sees the portrait in greater detail. He rubs his eyes carefully, removing grit, trying to determine if he's seeing things.

It looks like Mary.

Who is Mary?

Hers is a face and a name he remembers, but before he can lock on the memory, night falls. Because he is inside, he doesn't see the sun set, but he feels the change as he is shunted backwards, an observer in his own flesh. As Lucifer takes hold, he cackles, his mouth stretched in a bitter rictus. "Well, well, what have we here?"

The girl in the painting glows luminous in the torchlight, her pale skin and golden hair shining as if the painting were alive. Lucifer smirks. "Someone's got a girlfriend."

Castiel observes the painting through Lucifer's eyes, but the sharp and sudden memory that had surfaced when he'd first looked at her is gone. He knows Lucifer is wrong, however. He and Mary had not been sweethearts.

"Shame, bucko," Lucifer says. "She and I could have had some fun, if you were."

Castiel feels something burn in the back of his eyes. He hopes he's making Lucifer uncomfortable. It's the only power he has. _I want to keep this._

"Okay," Lucifer says. "I'll do my best not to wreck it tonight."

That's as good a promise as he's likely to get. When Lucifer is in control, he compels Castiel—not the other way around.

_We need to pay for it._

"No we don't."

_Yes, we do,_ Castiel insists. _You know how this works._

The magic they possess does not function on sufferance. While Lucifer likes to pretend he has limitless amounts of power—and while his reserves are considerable—the using of power without replenishing it in some way weakens them. Lucifer's stunt with the fire had knocked him out for several hours during his turn, allowing Castiel to spare the girl they had been chasing—assuming she had not died of the injuries Lucifer had inflicted first. A hollow victory, but significant—like all his triumphs over his demonic cohabitant. 

_If we pay him_ , Castiel says, _you'll get stronger._

It's true. Castiel dimly recalls helping other travelers in the past—the deep past, maybe a decade ago, when he'd had more of himself to give away. When Castiel uses his powers to help another, Lucifer's magic is replenished.

Castiel is curious if this connection works both ways, but he's never been able to fully test that. When Lucifer uses his magic, he's almost always hurting someone. There are times—like tonight—when he helps Castiel unsolicited, and he wonders if that sort of help is what allows him to retain his magic even when they go years without seeing another soul.

_You took more than you should have_ , he says to Lucifer through their connection, referring to the attack and the fire, summoning the memories for Lucifer to see. _Let me give something back._ Something to someone who knew Mary. That seems fair to him, even if he doesn't completely remember her.

"Fine," Lucifer spits. "But in the morning. I'm hungry."

__***_ _

The problem with Lucifer's eyes, Castiel thinks grimly, is that they never close. While Castiel himself is permitted various levels of dissociation—from full awareness to numbness to a suspended state that is something like sleep—he never really rests, because Lucifer doesn't rest. They stay up all night, every night, and have for years. Castiel used to keep count, but he'd lost track of the date somewhere near the eighth year, and his sense of time has been confused since then.

Lucifer decides to go hunting, flying free through the trees after game. He brings down a six-point buck without much effort, talons crushing the animal's ribcage, and though Castiel attempts detachment he can't help but flinch as the animal groans out its last breaths of agony.

He feels Lucifer's face twitch, sneering, as he cuts open the animal's soft underside and gorges himself on raw intestines, beak pecking sharp through flesh. Castiel uses some of his dissociation to float above their body, weightless, while Lucifer feeds; Lucifer doesn't need him close for this, and makes no move to pull him back.

When Lucifer is satisfied, he settles back, against a tree. Castiel glimpses a pair of wolf eyes in the dark at middle distance, but he knows the creature won't approach as long as Lucifer is there. The wolves and bears are smart. Other animals that wander too near the forest's heart become Lucifer's meals. Lucifer grins at the wolf ferally, and the creature darts away, out of view.

"I miss my hellhounds," Lucifer tells Castiel in something like a confidential whisper. "We should get a pet."

Castiel doesn't know how to respond to that, so he says and thinks nothing. He listens to the rain falling, gently now, on the canopy overhead, and he tries to forget that Lucifer is there. He is good at forgetting.

"Hey," Lucifer says. Lucifer draws him back in, close, so that he is no longer disconnected from their body. Castiel feels a sharp pain, as if he's just been poked in the eye with a stick. "I said, we should get a pet."

Apparently Lucifer wants to talk. _Why? You'd just eat it._

"Eventually, sure," Lucifer says. "But I'm fucking bored. You're too mopey to play with these days."

Castiel swallows. Dissociation is the only think keeping him sane. Well, sane according to his own definition. If Lucifer is expecting more fight from him—or more reactions in general—he will have to choose between sanity and torture on one hand, and insanity and tolerance on the other. It's what Lucifer has wanted from him for a long time. 

_You've never been fun to play with_ , Castiel tells him flatly. _No one likes you._

"Oh, he's trying to hurt my feelings; that's adorable," Lucifer spits. "I've got news for you, assbutt."

_You have no feelings?_

"Heh," Lucifer says. "Wouldn't that be easy? I feel things. Mostly anger. Try again."

Try again? What's he looking for in this conversation? _What?_ he asks Lucifer in irritation. _No one likes me, either?_

"No," Lucifer says. "It's worse. No one even _remembers_ you. No one knows you exist—that you ever existed." He pauses, looking up at the clouded sky. Castiel sees the North Star peeking through. "You're forgotten."

Castiel knows the revelation is supposed to hurt, but instead, it gives him a ray of hope. He's kept Lucifer here for so long that everyone that once knew him is dead. He's resisted for a long, long time, and he's still here.

"Don't get cocky," Lucifer says. "You're not half the soul you used to be."

True, but also largely irrelevant. He knows from sustained experience that there is no winning against Lucifer. The impossibility of his task is not a deterrent to Castiel. The goal is not to win, but to hold out for as long as possible.

"And now you're boring me again," Lucifer says, sighing. "Let's go the fuck home."

***

The mansion is quiet when they arrive back: the kind of quiet that hangs over the world after an intense and powerful storm. Castiel uses his dissociative state to check on the man, and is glad to find him still asleep. Lucifer doesn't care about the man, and instead chooses to fly through their upper rooms, kicking up dust and wreaking general havoc indoors. Castiel is initially surprised at this. He'd expected more direct punishment tonight, after forcing Lucifer to spare the man and talking back to him after the hunt. So far, all Lucifer has done is cover him in blood—which is unpleasant, but familiar—and mess up his house, which is again unpleasant, but not exactly unusual. 

It's getting past midnight when something subtle changes. Castiel feels it before he sees or hears anything amiss: Lucifer is on edge, and the feeling comes on suddenly, not at all planned or intentional. Without thinking, Castiel asks, _What's wrong?_

"There's someone here," Lucifer says quietly. "Someone new."

Castiel reaches out with his own battered senses, but doesn't feel any signs of stirring, or of life. Even rats and spiders avoid this house.

"I never said they were alive," Lucifer says. Castiel catches a glimpse of them in a dull, puckered bronze mirror tucked into the corner: something impossible to shatter, though Lucifer had tried to break it many times. Lucifer's eyes are as red as coals. Talons clack murderously on the dusty wooden floor.

Ah. A spirit. They had dealt with those before—usually, they are Lucifer's victims, come to haunt the place where they had died before crossing over. _Who is it?_

Lucifer's face retreats inward—the bird equivalent of frowning—and shrugs his shoulders out, wings fluttering. "It's hiding from me."

Clever spirit. Though if it were truly intelligent, it would probably have fled this place by now.

Another subtle change comes over the house, but this time Castiel can hear it: the man is waking up. _He's up,_ Castiel tells Lucifer, _or will be, soon. Are you going to keep your part of the bargain?_

I already did. He's not dead."

_I mean payment,_ Castiel clarifies. _For that painting._

"Oh yeah," Lucifer says, chuckling a little under his breath. "Forgot about that." He shrugs. "All right. How much were you thinking?" 

If Castiel had been permitted to blink, he would have. _What it's worth, of course._

Lucifer whistles. "Well, it's worth a lot, and I'm not sure I have it in me. So," Lucifer says, his voice taking on a sing-song-like lilt, "you're going to have to—contribute."

Castiel trembles where he curls hidden inside of Lucifer. _No._

"Do you want that fucking painting or not?"

Now that it comes to it, he doesn't know. Contributing to Lucifer's energy stores means losing a piece of himself. It means being knocked out of his body while Lucifer faces the man alone. It's not worth the risk.

"Oh, now, is baby Cassie scared of what I'll do to the puny, pathetic little man?" Lucifer preens one of his wings contemptuously. "You know I can't go back on my word. Not to you, twerp. So, what's it gonna be?"

Castiel thinks for a minute. Two. Three.

"We don't have all night, here," Lucifer says. "What do you say?"

Castiel wishes he could close his eyes. _Yes._

***

When the man gets up, Lucifer is in charge. Castiel claws at the edges of his mind, trying to get out, but he knows that deals are everything with Lucifer.

_Just remember that you promised not to kill him,_ Castiel gibbers, over and over again, and Lucifer gives him a bored wave of one wing. He's not listening to Castiel anymore.

"Go to sleep, asshole," Lucifer says.

A direct command from the one in charge of their body is difficult to resist. Castiel feels dissociation encroaching on him, sapping his rage, his resistance. When he wakes up, he knows he will forget something, like he always does—a memory, a face, a name. He hopes that this time it will be the fire, and not something more precious, but he has no control over that. Not even Lucifer does.

"Go on, get some rest, kiddo," Lucifer goads as he fights the feeling of drowning in his own head. "It'll all still be here when you get back."

Castiel can't help it. He's pulled under, lost, as Lucifer laughs and spreads his dark wings wide. 


	9. The Colt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that wee delay...work got crazy last week. But the descriptive outline for this story is now complete, so updates will (hopefully) be more regular.

When John wakes up, it's with sun in his eyes and cotton in his mouth. He had fallen asleep near the dusty window after consuming his meal, and now the early morning sunlight peeks in at him. The fire has burned down low, just embers now. He rolls his shoulders and sits up, realizing as he does so that someone must have put a blanket over him as he slept. He kicks it off, noticing that it is clean if a little worn, and stands up.

He swallows uncomfortably, trying to get rid of the dry dust feeling in the back of his throat, and thinks dark thoughts. Someone had drugged him. They had lured him here, and drugged him, which probably means that his horse and his wagon and everything are gone; spirited away while he slept like a moron. "Shit," John says. He wants to run out and find his wagon, but he is urgently thirsty. His eyes flick around the room for a moment, looking for water.

What he finds is better than that: cold cuts and pastry for breakfast, with water and coffee in small carafes set on a tray. Candles are set in a rude iron chandelier overhead, dripping wax; enough for him to know they'd been burning for quite some time. The table looks a touch cleaner than it had the night before, but that may only be because the dust on it had been disturbed again.

He bites into a pastry without thinking and spits it out a moment later. This food could be drugged, too. He hesitates, then eats the rest of the pastry, testing each bite for mysterious flavors. The food only increases the discomfort in his throat, so he downs the water as well.

As he drinks, he verifies that his knife is where he left it the previous night—it is—and slips it into his sleeve. While he hasn't been directly attacked yet, there's no guarantee he won't be. He waits a few minutes to ensure the food he'd eaten wouldn't knock him out, then helps himself to another pastry—meat-filled, this time—and goes outside.

The rain is still falling. Puddles pool around his feet, leaving his pant legs soaked in seconds. It's going to be miserable, wandering the woods in search of the wagon in this weather. He blinks stinging cold out of his eyes and moves toward the stable; the horse may increase his chances of finding his things before he contracts pneumonia.

He finds the wagon directly outside the stable, sheltered by one of the overhanging eaves from the drizzle. John hastens over to it, splashing at every step, and looks in, expecting to find its contents ransacked.

Instead, he finds that the floor of the wagon is covered in gold coins. He places his wet hands in the heap closest to him, and discovers that the pile goes two or three deep. His mouth opens a little in shock. This is unprecedented. This is not possible. He must be dreaming this.

Seconds pass and the treasure does not vanish. He lifts a coin in his hand, tests it on his teeth. Real.

As his fists close over the largesse, he breathes, steadying himself. "Thank you," he says to whatever God or spell must have intervened to help him. "Thank you." Aside from the gold, his other things are gone—including, he realizes with a pang, his gun, as well as other supplies—but that can't be helped. The gold is far more valuable than those supplies had been, and it's not like he's far from home. He'll grab some more of the food set out on the table and go home.

The gleam of the coins catches his eyes over and over again. What kind of spell would do this? In his experience, magic always comes with a price. The coins are worth far more than the meager possessions he'd been carrying. "So," he mutters to himself, "what's the catch?"

No one answers. Of course not.

For a moment, he considers leaving the money. He doesn't know where it's come from or where it's been. The moment passes quickly. Most of the rich men he knew had acquired their wealth from someone else's tragedy; he could not afford moral qualms at the moment.

When he finally tears himself away from the gold, he notices that the hitch of the wagon has been repaired as well. The wheels are muddy, but serviceable. He'll be able to get back to town, assuming the horse made it through the night.

The horse.

As he pushes the door to the stable open, the hinges creak hideously: a glance at their rusty covering reveals that they're in dire need of replacement. The horse nickers to him from the far left corner; a water trough and sloppy manger of hay had been left out overnight. John shakes his head, wondering about his host. Whoever it was hadn't neglected the basic necessities, even without John asking for them, which suggests to John that who or whatever lives here is human.

Human—or formerly human. Many monsters remember what people need to live.

But if his host is a monster—or a witch—John is sure he would have been killed while he slept. As he leads the horse out of the stable on its mangled halter, he finds himself searching for footprints in the muddy path; though the main yard is paved with uneven stone, he can see the evidence of his passing clearly. He sees no sign of another person.

There are wildlife tracks—rabbits and squirrels, mostly—and he hears the flap of wings overhead. Animals live here, so the host must not be directly demonic. Animals also avoid spirits, and carnivores like Rugaru. He looks for wolf tracks—a werewolf would explain everything—but sees no evidence of any canine species.

He has been kneeling half in mud for fifteen minutes before the horse stomps one foot impatiently, eager to be off—or perhaps eager to go back into the stable, where it's dry. John chuckles and leads the horse back inside. Then he returns to the house for food.

Once he's eaten as much of the spread as he can—he intends to rush home; no sense in packing stores—he thinks about whoever has done all of this for him. They should be thanked; he should thank them. The fact that he has so far been able to locate them needles John. Before he goes, he decides to make one last search.

The dusty rooms look gray in the thin storm-light, like mausoleums of stone. Furniture is pulled back against the walls for the most part; one table is entirely destroyed, sliced in half and clawed. Maybe by wildlife; maybe by whatever lives here: John intends to find out. He still has his knife. He misses his gun's reassuring weight in his holster.

He's near the back of the house before he notices anything different from his previous search: there's a room with a wet floor. The window in this room is broken; rain spatters the warped floorboards. The sound of the storm seems magnified in here, as if it's getting closer, but he sees that the rain is actually letting up; the sky is lightening. He is grateful for a moment that he granted himself a slight reprieve to search the house; he would rather travel home in better weather.

There is a door in here that he hadn't noticed the previous night. No wonder: the frame is hidden by dust, and there is no knob. The top of the door has elaborate crown molding and juts out like a shelf, which is doubtless what he'd mistaken it for when he'd been in here before.

"Sloppy," he mutters. Still, this is the only place he hasn't explored. If his host lives here, it's got to be on the other side of the door. He tries pushing it open without success. He puts his shoulder into it: no change. He pries the edge of the door forward, thinking that it might swing forward, but it doesn’t move that way, either. However, his frenzied pulling knocks something loose from the doorframe above; it clatters to the floor with a sound that's too loud; a sound that shatters more than just the stillness.

He bends to retrieve the thing that dropped. It's a box—as dirty as everything else—with a rusted lock that's already halfway busted open. John tears the lock, opens the box, and sees a gun.

Huh. He'd just been wishing for his own back. This one is of higher quality than the one he'd lost: the barrel is long and thin, and even in the low light it gleams gunmetal brightness. He stares down the barrel and finds it likewise clean. There are carvings on the gun's handle; he is about to inspect these closer when he hears the unmistakable sound of a door opening: the lever turning, hinges creaking hideously. He grips the gun and turns rapidly, feet planted, arms up in defense—

\--but he drops his hands almost immediately in shock. Something six feet tall, feathered and feral emerges from the doorway before him. Sidestepping neatly, the creature's wings flare to an impossible span, air buffeting him backwards, and John has a moment to think, _Here's the_ _monster._

What kind? He's never seen this before.

The monster stills its wings suddenly and fixes its shiny black eyes on John. It has birdlike features—a beak (also black), layered wings, talons attached to its legs, no arms. But its proportions are human: it has a spine, torso, separated legs, the suggestion of knees. Shapeshifter? Like a werewolf, only with birds?

Silver would be useful against this thing. Or maybe iron. Or maybe—John's eyes flick down to his own hands—the gun. He prays that it's loaded.

The clacking of the creature's talons echoes loudly in the silence of the room. "We should have left you to the ravens," the monster hisses, and John is surprised to find the voice intelligible. "Look at me, human."

John is not a coward: he looks the thing directly in the eyes. While black from a further distance, John sees they have a reddish cast where the pupil would be in a human eye, glowing like coals. "Demon," he breathes.

The creature takes a step forward, laughing gleefully. "Oh, it's a hunter," it says. "I haven't eaten one of those in a long time."

John clasps the gun in his hand and cocks it. He points it at the monster, his hand trembling slightly.

If anything, the monster laughs harder, wings spreading slightly as the creature whoops for air. "And to think," it gasps, "you were _thanking_ me just a second ago."

And now John wants to kick himself for not just taking the money and running. If he'd done that, maybe the creature would have let him go. He pulls the trigger—

\--and nothing happens. "You—you're—"

 "Tell me, what am I?"

"A monster," John says. "A demon. _Exorcizamus te_. Where is your master?"

The creature doesn't even flinch. "It knows me but not my name." The beak dips, and John swears that the creature is _pouting_. "I gave you gold, and food, and shelter. And you take my prized possession. Now, how does that look?"

John backs up a step and feels his spine press the unopenable door behind him. "I—I didn't know. I thought the gun was mine. Mine was taken from the wagon—"

"Exchanged, not taken," the monster corrects. "A deal's a deal. Unfortunately," the creature says, sounding mildly regretful, "that the price for that particular item is a life. Yours, I think."

 John blanches, pales, and prepares to set the gun down.

"Oh, it's far too late for that." The creature cackles evilly. "You touch it, you own it. I don't make the rules, but I," he pauses, searching for a word, "enforce them. Now, come along and don't struggle, and maybe I'll make this quick for you."

John swallows. The gun has no bullets. He has no idea why the creature hasn't killed him already. It has every advantage. It could have murdered him a hundred different ways by now.

John reviews their exchanges in a fraction of a second, drawing on combat experience to slow down time and give him space to think. He realizes—with a start—that the creature had called itself _we._ So there must be someone else here—someone with influence; someone powerful enough to be invoked, someone that had made the decision to spare him overnight.

It's a slim hope, but it's the only one he has. "What does your partner think of that?"

The demon's face twists in a spasmodic snarl. It grabs John by the throat, the bones of the primaries sharp through the feathers, and John gasps, struggling for air. There is no loosening the thing's grip; as his vision fades around the edges, he regrets not coming up with a better plan; a better way out. For a brief moment, he regrets not listening to Dean. He'd told him not to go through the forest.

Dean. Sam. Adam. Hell, even Kate. If he dies now, their lives as they know it end. They'll be back where he started his life—in poverty, in want. And in danger—Dean or Sam might be stupid enough to go after this thing if he didn't return. As the monster's grip tightens, he chokes out, "Let me—go back to my family."

The monster laughs again, and John feels its grip shift upward, trying to crush his windpipe.

He tries again. "Only for a day," he says. "I'll be back. I promise."

"Doesn't take 'no' for an answer, does it?"

The edges of his vision blur and go dark. One last try. "If I don't, hunters will come for me."

The monster stills, though it does not let him go. "Hunters," it sneers. "Let them come. I'm getting bored with skulking in this forest."

John takes advantage of being able to speak clearly. "I'm a Winchester," he says, invoking his long family history of hunting—and hoping the monster knows enough to be scared.

Not that it has much to be scared of. While John's family has been hunting for centuries beyond count, he had made it his life's purpose to get his children out of that life. As fraught as his relationship with Mary had been, especially near the end, he has tried to respect her dying wish that her children not be brought up as hunters.

Perhaps John's own good-for-nothing father had been right: you can take the Winchester away from hunting, but hunting will always find them, sooner or later.

The monster hisses, lets go, steps back.

"In two days," the monster says, "if you or yours is not back in this forest, I will come for you. All of you _hunters_."

John nods, rubbing his throat. "I owe you a life."

The creature doesn't respond. It looks away from him, and if John didn't know any better he'd say that the monster is having some kind of internal crisis. "Can a human be trusted?" it grits out. Then: "Take the gun. Not like it'll do you any good, anyway."

John bends and wraps his fingers around the weapon cautiously and backs up, putting his spine to the wall and facing the creature square.

The creature stomps on its heel and turns, preparing to leave. "Remember what you owe," it snarls, slamming the door behind it.

"Yeah," John breathes heavily through his damaged throat. "You'll get it."


	10. The Trade

Whoever first said that bad things came in threes had been right—presciently so.

First, losing the wagons—that had been a tough blow, which had led to the second calamity: Sam not being able to marry Jessica. And that second had led to the third: John Winchester has been missing for almost two days.

Ordinarily that wouldn't be much cause for concern, but travelers from Budejovice had come in that morning and told Dean that John had not been spotted in town or on the road. At worst, it should have taken him three days to get to Budejovice; if he hadn't been seen on the road, then John is probably in trouble. Dean assembles Sam, Jessica and Adam around their rickety three-legged table and prepares a plan.

"I'm leaving tonight," Dean says. "Ellen has a horse she'll let me borrow. In the meantime, money's tight, so I'm going to need someone to take the herbs and pelts to market day tomorrow."

Dean looks pointedly at Adam, who shrugs. "Fine. I'll do that."

"Good. Meantime, here's the budget." He passes his calculations over to Sam. "Give or take."

Sam takes the paper and looks it over. Dean is reassured when he nods; Sam has had more practice with such work, and his approval means Dean's estimates are reasonable. Adam takes a peek at the paper and whistles. "We'll be living under a bridge soon, if that's all we got," he says, frowning.

"Not if I can help it," Dean says. "Anyway, stay within that allowance while I'm gone, or we'll have worse problems when I get back." He scrubs a hand over his face languidly. As soon as he stops, he knows he'll crash, so his solution is to keep going, at least until he finds his dad.

Some part of him doesn't want to find John Winchester—the part that wants to flee Lawrence and be free. Right now, he wants to strangle that part of himself to death. He'd been foolish to even think about splitting up the family. They need each other, now more than ever.

 _Please, dad,_ he thinks to himself, not praying because he'd stopped believing in God a long time ago. _Come back._

 

***

 

Dean is forced to reevaluate his stance on prayer when his father returns with a wagon full of money. The wagon's clanking can be heard from some distance; men and women hang off the wagon merrily, hoping for a glimpse—or a handful—of gold. Dean stands on the top floor's balcony and looks down. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth: dad has come through, and he and Sam don't need to worry about their plan anymore.

While Adam goes into town for supplies and Jessica cleans the kitchen, Sam and Dean help their father unpack the wagon. The treasure he has brought back is enormous, and while Dean is glad for it he also feels a slight burrowing of unease under his skin. His father hadn't gotten this money in Budejovice, and his quick return means that he couldn't have gotten beyond the forest.

"Looks like the wedding is on," Sam says to Dean.

"Damn straight," Dean says.

"No expense spared," John adds, and Sam gives him a toothy smile.

Dean nods vaguely, still smiling, but it's plastered on. He's overjoyed that his dad is back, and he's not usually one for looking gift horses in the mouth, but this entire situation is strange. If he stands here much longer, he'll start interrogating his father, and he doesn't want to do that—especially when he and Sam are making such a good show of getting along. Dean scoops up a generous handful of the money, puts it in his pocket, and decides to head to the _Hound and Whip_ for a beer.

"Where you off to?" Sam calls.

"I was gonna see Bobby," Dean answers, half-turning to wave. "You know where to find me if you need me."

Sam nods, but he looks perturbed. He doesn't like to be alone with their father. Dean thinks they should form some sort of club. John is usually good when they're in a group, but terrible one-on-one. Dean wonders how his mother had been able to tolerate him, but remembers that he'd been a different man, then. Before the fire.

He focuses on the sound and feel of coins in his pocket as he makes his way over to the bar. It's one of the only original buildings in Lawrence, survivor of the fire that gutted the town, and though it's a dive Dean feels safe there. The ragged sign hanging above the low square building is practically illegible, but he can still make out a dog's head in the center, baring feral fangs. He opens the weathered wooden door of the _Hound and Whip,_ so old it's ash-gray and probably cut before Dean was born. Smoke and noise assault his senses, and he coughs a little before stepping inside.

Bobby hails him immediately from the bar, and he sits, putting enough money on the counter to purchase a round of whiskey for both of them. The candles along the bar are lit, as are the ones near the windows; vespers is approaching and it's past dark. The bartender, Ash, attends to their drinks and lets them be; he looks catted out of his mind. Probably using hash again. Dean knows he has a trade line to some pretty weird shit, but as long as he isn't served poison, he's determined not to complain.

"Heard your daddy's back," Bobby says companionably as Dean reaches for his whiskey.

"Yep, he pulled another save out of his ass."

"So Sammy's getting married?"

"Yeah." Dean takes a long swig of his drink. The liquid burns pleasantly going down, warming him from belly to brain, and he nurses the glass in his hand as if it's precious.

"Glad to hear it," Bobby says. "Am I invited?"

Dean scoffs. "What kind of question is that? 'Course you are."

Bobby takes a small sip of his own drink and shakes his head. A few moments pass, easy and quiet; Dean sees Benny and Gordon chatting on the other side of the bar. Benny's so drunk his cheeks are red and flushed, poking out like a chipmunk's; Dean nearly laughs.

"So are we gonna talk about this, or what?"

Bobby's voice jolts him for a moment. "About what?"

"Where your daddy got the gold."

"Oh." Dean has been trying not to think about that. "He didn't say."

"And you didn't ask?"

"Not yet."

"Hm." Bobby gives him a bleary look. "That ain't like you. You know it didn't come from nowhere good." He takes another drink and becomes engrossed in the sight of Gordon arguing with Benny about how to season poplar as firewood, except Benny can't pronounce "poplar" because he's so drunk, so it keeps coming out as "popular" or "popylar." More to the point, there aren't too many poplar groves around here, so Benny's foreignness to the town is showing, but Gordon hasn't corrected his assumptions yet. Gordon likes fucking with people. Dean doesn't get it.

Bobby shakes his head, tsks, and shifts his watery gaze back to Dean. "He came back from the woods, didn't he?"

"Bobby—"

"Didn't he?"

 "I don't want to talk about this. Not right now."

"Suit yourself," Bobby says, shrugging. "You find out anything, you let me know. I may be retired, but I'll go back in there if you ask me to."

Dean knows he would; he had been one of the only people in the original search party for the wagons. "Thanks, Bobby," he says. "Now can we talk about something less awful?"

"Sure, Dean," Bobby says. He pretends to think for a moment, then breaks out in a wide grin. "I hear your baby brother's getting married before you," he says. "Some kind of defect I should know about?"

Dean snorts into his whiskey. "Shut up."

 

***

 

When Dean gets back home, only the outer light is on; everyone else must have already gone to bed. He stumbles over the front step, perhaps a little bit more drunk than he'd like to admit, and enters in, hand gripping the rail as he makes his unsteady way up the stairs.

When he comes out into the living room, he sees plates of food stacked on the side-table and even more plates set on their dining table; Sammy and Jess must have cooked a feast. Dean idly grabs a roll off the side-table, then glances around, looking for his dad and brother.

They're both in the den. Adam is there as well, reading a book; he looks up and waves as soon as Dean comes in. Sam is sitting on the floor near the fire writing in a notebook; John sits in a large puffy chair with a drink. It's comfortable and domestic; Dean wonders where Jess is, but is unwilling to shatter the serenity of the scene.

He's about to turn and go to bed when Adam grabs his book and heads into his room. Dean nods in acknowledgement as he passes—which is more than their father can manage, it seems. As soon as Adam is gone, Sam takes his ledger and begins to take inventory of all of their money. He and John had fit most of it into a large wooden trunk; Sam sets piles of coins around him and stacks them in neat little rows, occasionally counting on his fingers.

Dean takes the chair Adam vacated, grateful for its residual warmth as well as that of the fire. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of clinking money, and thinks, _This is nice._

As if on cue, John says, "I need to head out tomorrow."

"What for?" Dean asks sleepily. He is going to sleep in this chair where he is warm and comfortable, and his father is not about to change that.

 "Business."

"Business?" Dean asks. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times to clear the grainy film that has formed on them. Perhaps he really shouldn't have gone drinking. "You just got back. Sammy's getting married in a week. What can't wait that long?"

John doesn't answer. Not in words. Instead, he makes his way over to the window and looks down at the wagon. When Dean realizes he's not going to get an answer, he gets up, moving next to his father by the window. Dean tracks John's gaze, and in front of their wagon he sees a large black horse. It is looking at them—him or John; he can't tell—with fixed vision; Dean whistles, but not even its ears react.

"That's not our horse," Dean says. It doesn't belong to the house; he knows all of them. The one he sees is black like death, emaciated and fearful—but it stares him down as if it wants to charge him. He swallows and looks at his father.

"No," John says. "It came for me. I promised to go back."

"Back where?"

"To the forest," John says. "To where the wagons were lost. There's a house there."

"A house? What house?" Dean's voice raises without his full consent; Sam looks up from the money chest and gives him a reproving look. "I thought you found all this in the forest, where the wagons were lost."

"The wagons weren't lost, they were stolen," John snaps in his most indomitable, inflexible tone. "The thief is a demon. I found his home, and he gave me these things and permitted me to come back, but he demanded a price."

Sam stands up, inventory forgotten, and he says, "Don't tell me you were stupid enough to make a deal?"

John sighs. "No," he says. "Not exactly. I still have my soul, but as I was leaving," he says, pausing to remove something from his belt, "I picked this up, and the demon appeared."

"What is it?" Sam asks, stepping closer, and John hands the object—a gun, Dean sees—to Sam carefully. "Wow, this is old. Like, two or three hundred years, when guns were new."

"How can you tell?" Dean asks.

"The design, for one," Sam says. "Single-shot. And the barrel, for another. You could load this up with buckshot or rusty nails; it'd still shoot, though I wouldn't trust the accuracy worth a damn. Although," he says, and now he holds the gun out at arms' length, staring down the gleaming barrel, "I don't know. It's well made, especially for its age. But why would a demon have a gun lying around?" Sam shrugs. "I've got no idea." He hands the gun over to Dean to inspect, then asks John, "If it wants the gun, can't you just give it back?"

"No," John says. "I tried that already. He said that by touching it I claimed it."

Dean hands the gun hastily back to his father. "And that means?"

"That means it's mine, along with all the treasure we brought in today," he says, "but the gun will cost my life, whether I want it or not."

Dean swallows. "Shit, dad," Dean says. "And you couldn't have told us before?"

"I'm telling you now."

Bad things come in threes. They _always_ come in threes.

Dean lets his eyes close again momentarily. His heartbeat sounds loud in his own chest. "And I'm telling you," he says, "you're not going."

"I have to go at sunrise," John says. "If I don't, it's coming into town. For all of us."

Dean remembers the scene of the massacre. He doesn't want all of Lawrence under threat from whatever had done it, but he can't let his father risk himself against it, either.

Dean breaks his inflexible rule: he looks his father in the eyes. "If you try to go," he says, "I'll stop you."

John snorts, all derision, and Dean places his hand on his father's shoulder and grips hard enough for John to gasp. The fight Dean had felt building and building days ago has arrived, and he's not sure if he wants to take a swing before words fail or if he wants to back off, take Sam and hide.

John's eyes move from the hand on his shoulder up to Dean's face. "You sure you want to do this, boy?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Positive." He uses his grip to shove John backward, against the wall; his hands come up defensively, but Dean's faster, landing a punch to the center of his forehead. John goes down with a bleeding gash; Dean had forgotten to remove his gloves and the abrasive material tears through John's skin like tissue paper.

John's leg comes out and trips Dean, bringing them to the same level; Dean lashes out but John's hands are already in his hair, pulling him close. Dean gets a knee to the groin that he pulls aside from at the last moment; John uses his swerve to shove one fist into Dean's ribs. Dean's face meets a corner of the wall, and Dean's vision whites out for a moment.

By this time, Sam has sandwiched his way between them, either joining the fight or trying to restrain one or both of them; Dean doesn't pause long enough to figure that out. He drops, pulling John with him, and lands one more solid punch to the old man's forehead.

He goes down, eyes glazed. Dean's heartbeat thuds in his ears like footsteps, like panic. He has to leave. Now.

Sam pulls him off of John; the two of them collapse to the floor, and Sam's eyes twitch between his brother and father like a hyperactive squirrel's. "I don't know why you two do this."

Dean doesn't dignify that with a response. He struggles to get up, but Sam holds him still, regarding him with an exasperated look. "Let's get you both cleaned up."

 

***

 

Sam grabs some rags and a bucket of fairly clean water from the kitchen, insisting that Dean stay where he is. He dabs at John's injuries carefully; the cut on his forehead bleeds a lot, but is shallow. Sam then rinses his rag and switches his focus to Dean, who brushes him off, squirming too much for Sam to get close.

"I'm fine, Sam," he says. He wishes they had ice, but the season's still too warm for that. He and Sam sit in silence with their father, still unconscious. John is out like a light—and has been for over five minutes, before Sam suggests that they take him upstairs to sleep it off.

"We should probably wake him before too long," Dean says. "Concussion and all." He needs his dad immobile for a while, but unconsciousness is likely not necessary.

"Well, you're doing that, then, because I'd rather not deal with round two right now."

"You've got a point."

"Help me lift him?"

Dean rubs one abused leg and gets up. "I take the feet."

Sam and Dean shamble awkwardly around John's still body. Dean holds an ankle in each hand while Sam struggles to get a firm grip under John's shoulders. Lifting him off the ground is the toughest part; Dean's ribs stab in protest, lancing sharp pain through his chest; he gasps and nearly drops John before something in his stomach settles and the pain eases.

He nods to Sam. His brother maneuvers them down the hallway, step by slow step, until they must turn awkwardly into the room. Once there, Sam moves smoothly to the bed, and he and Dean settle John down on top of his sheets. He looks like he's sleeping.

Sam rubs his hands together, dislodging grit, and looks at Dean. "You, um, really didn't have to do this."

"Yeah, I did," Dean says. He closes his eyes. "We need him here." It's true—more true than Dean wants to admit.

But someone also needs to go back to the woods, or Lawrence will be in trouble.

Sam gestures for him to sit in the hall chair outside their father's room. Dean complies; Sam vanishes down the hall for a moment and comes back with the rag and bucket of water.

"Stay still this time, or I'll knock you out, too," Sam says, dipping the rag in the water and setting it to the edge of Dean's cut.

Dean winces as Sam cleans around the wound on his face. The pressure is hot and stinging, but he doesn't say anything. His pulse still pounds with urgency, but he doesn't want to fight Sam off. He can spare a few more minutes before he runs. Besides, if his cut gets infected before he reaches the forest, he might not be able to navigate correctly. He takes a deep shuddering breath and tries to ignore the pounding in his ears.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Sure, Sammy," Dean says. Bruised ribs, a cut face: it's not pretty or pleasant, but he's had worse. He can walk, and carry, which means he can ride.

"Rest up," Sam says, drawing the rag back from Dean's face. "I don't want either of you moving until tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, waving Sam away. "Quit your mother henning and get back to your fiancé."

Sam plops the rag in the bucket. "All right. Night, jerk."

"Same, bitch."

Sam smirks a little at the old nickname, gets up, and leaves Dean sitting on the hall chair.

He's alone.

His heart beats louder.

For a second, he considers running to Bobby and Ellen; getting the town's hunters together to go after this thing. Sammy would have to stay here, which he'd hate, but Dean doesn't want to risk him. The trouble is, half the town's hunters had already been killed during the wagon raid. If something came to attack the town, it would be defenseless.

No. John had said the demon wanted a life in exchange for the gun. Just one life.

He has one of those. He's willing to risk it if it keeps everyone else safe.

Dean gets up and passes Kate's room on the way back to his own. He catches a glimpse of himself in the distorted mirror outside of Kate's door and grimaces. Waste of money. He's seen more accurate depictions of himself in pools of water. His still-bleeding cut gleams dully in the reflection, making him look gored. He places careful fingers along the edge of the wound and finds it tender, but not bleeding.

The door to his room whispers open: he keeps the hinges well-oiled because he likes to work late in the garden sometimes and he doesn't want to wake everyone when he goes to bed. He pulls a rucksack from his closet and throws in everything he thinks he'll need for a few days' travel: spare clothes, dried fruit and meat, his knife, rope, a few weapons, including a silver knife blessed by a priest. It would be good to take his bow as well, but with a few of his ribs out of commission he doubts he'd be able to do much with it for a month at least. He leaves it where it is, in the left-hand corner of the room with his arrows and quiver. If it comes to combat, he hopes it's close.

He attaches the rucksack around his torso by a leather strap, ribs protesting horribly. He turns to leave the room, pausing at the door to remove his rosary from the doorknob and place it sloppily over his head. His religion may have lapsed years ago, but it never hurts to have some kind of holy help against a demon. Before leaving the house, Dean returns to the living room and lifts the gun out of its box. He touches it; he owns it. If the demon plays by the rules, that means Dean can now pay his father's debt.

And if it doesn't play by the rules, well...he has other weapons. And a gun could come in handy.

Supplies gathered, Dean walks as quick and quiet as he can to the back of the house and the staircase that leads to the garden. He takes the stairs gingerly, stepping on the quietest places he can, head aching near-constantly. The edges of his vision are black with residual concussive damage; he focuses on what he can see, not on what he can't. Focusing only makes his headache worse.

He opens the door to the garden and lets out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. The sticky summer night air slaps him like an insult, nearly making him lose his balance. He hears a faint whinnying sound and turns toward it in the dark. The horse is there, on the other side of the house, watching him. He approaches with the same steady, deliberate slowness that he's used throughout his escape. Even now, Sam could stop him—but only if he hears him.

When he is a little less than two feet away from the horse, he stops. The black horse regards Dean with unsteady glittering eyes, as if it is deciding whether to trust him or not. Dean mounts bareback; he doesn't have time to go to the stable for the harness and tack. The horse doesn't seem to mind. He points it to the road out of town, squeezes his knees around its body, and it canters off at an easy pace.

Easy or not, riding is agony. The strap digs into his damaged chest and the night air whips against his cut like the slash of a knife. His eyes water, stinging, but he's not crying. He turns back to the house and sees the garden receding in the distance, illumined under a pale and half-full moon. He's going to miss it. Not the house—the garden. Not his dad—Sam. Pieces of his life, he'll miss. To the rest? Good riddance.

Sammy is going to get married. Dad will be fine. Dean is making sure of it.

He finds the horse's smooth gait reassuring and steady. Even the pain becomes familiar and predictable, after a while. He is finally leaving home, like he'd always thought he would. As his vision clears and the injury to his face scabs over, he tries to tell himself that this is what mom would have wanted.

And that what mom would have wanted was right.


	11. Nightmare

Lawrence is deserted at this time of night. Dean sees no one on the road out of town as the horse continues to carry him at its easy, reassuring pace. The buildings to either side of him are blurry, indistinct; the only reason he knows they're there is that the darkness is thinner where they're not.

The pain of his injuries recedes with familiarity, or maybe he's just too tired to focus on it. His eyes drop closed, and he sleeps fitfully, jostled by the horse at odd intervals.

When the moon starts to set, the light goes completely out of the sky, but the horse doesn't falter. Dean manages a solid hour of rest before the sun peeks over the horizon like a child hiding ineffectually under the covers. Dean screws his eyes shut, determined to get more sleep, but his ribs are shifting with the horse's gait and the pain distracts him again.

When he comes back to wakefulness with the sun in his eyes, he feels as if he hasn't slept at all. He is somewhat glad to find himself on a forest path; there is honest earth beneath the horse's feet, not yet rough stones. For a short while, he allows himself to feel that all of this is normal; after all, he often spends time in the woods, and this isn't much different. He'll be staying in the woods longer than usual this time, probably, but he'll come out again. He always does.

Trees dot the road to either side of him; there are more ahead. He blinks grit out of his eyes and is about to reach around for the waterskin in his rucksack when his head throbs angrily at the change in position. The horse snorts under him, pausing for a moment before moving on. Dean decides to stay where he is for now.

He is urgently thirsty. His head hurts, his chest hurts, and the trees to either side of him press in like walls, hemming him in, awakening the previous night's panic. As he brings his worn-out mind to bear, he realizes that most of the trees he's seeing are dead—white-bleached with disease, or, increasingly, blackened by fire. He squints, but sees no sign of recent fire; this damage is old.

This damage might have been from the fire that gutted Lawrence. As he travels, he notes that the blackened trunks are laid out in a sort of pattern; if he could see it from above, he might be able to figure it out.

The horse slows under him, and Dean sees that the stone path is coming up ahead. The horse climbs upon the stones, keeping its pace to a careful walk. The trees now are alive and green: great oaks with wide leaves that obscure the sky and everything else. Ahead, Dean sees something black and thick, like briers. It's the thorn hedge.

The last time he'd been this far into the woods, the hedge had been cleared, at least enough to let someone through. Now it is completely overgrown. He will need to hack his way through again, but aside from his knife, he has nothing to hack with. He lets the horse get him close—to within a few dozen yards—and tries to dismount. However, the horse isn't having it; it nearly bucks him trying to keep him from moving.

They're within fifty feet of the hedge when the horse stops and paws the ground, hooves scraping stone with a terrible shrieking noise. Its nostrils flare, and it lets out a high sound like a scream that makes Dean's head feel like it's going to split along the bones of his skull. Then the horse charges forward, galloping, jolting Dean's body with each step, running faster and faster.

Dean is going to die. The horse is going to crash them into the thorns and they are both going to bleed to death, assuming the impact does not kill one or both of them first.

Without thinking—no time for that—Dean squeezes his knees around the horse, trying to get it to swerve aside, but it refuses to budge. His knees tighten instinctively, hands coming up; the beast springs forward, its legs leaving the ground, and for a moment Dean is weightless. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the impact.

It doesn't come.

Dean counts to ten, then fifteen, then twenty. He opens his eyes.

The horse is ambling along the stone road before them. Dean checks the horse with his knees, and it looks up at him for a moment guiltily, as if it is supremely pleased with itself. Dean turns in his seat, and sees the hedge—whole, unbroken. He looks up and sees a wide gap between the hedge and the start of the canopy.

Large enough for a horse and rider—assuming the horse can leap its own height over a distance of several yards.

Which should be impossible. But it isn't, apparently. They are over the hedge. He's fine.

Dean pats the horse neatly on the flank. "That was amazing." He wants to give the horse a name, but he's not even sure if it's male or female. "You're awesome."

The horse snorts derisively and keeps going at a gentler pace. The stone under its hooves is still in relatively good repair, though Dean sees it's deteriorating along the edges of the path.

A light drizzle starts to fall as the sun rises high into the sky. The air, warm to start with, becomes unbearably sticky and humid, and Dean's urgent thirst becomes a buzzing in his skull and a roughness in the back of his throat. He is about to try to dismount again—horse's wishes be damned—when he sees the gate looming in front of him, black iron doors swung open like a pit to Hell. On the other side, Dean sees that the stone path ends; there seems to be some kind of cliff or wall in the middle distance, covered with climbing vines.

Close to home at last, the horse picks up the pace, and they are through the gate's jaws in mere minutes. He hears a dull creaking sound behind him and turns in time to see the black doors snap firmly shut.

"Well, that's not ominous at all," he mutters. To the horse, he asks, "Did you do that?"

The horse does not reply—not even with a snort—but it stops right at the edge of the stone path, where the paving ends and raw mud begins. Dean dismounts, boots oozing in the muck. "Thanks, I appreciate that," he mutters. The horse snaps its teeth together, startling him. Then it turns, faces away from him, and canters down the stone path again. Dean hears the creak of the gates as they open and start to close. Though he follows as fast as the paving stones allow, trailing muck with every step, the horse is faster; it makes it through the gates, and though Dean is seconds behind the iron lock is shut tight.

"Well, shit," Dean says. He scans the trees and hedge to either side of the path, seeking another way through. He would, ideally, prefer to leave at some point. A gap in the trees to his left looks promising. The gate is set on an incline between two hills that might keep dropping into ravines; he can't tell because the slope is too gentle. At the bottom of one of the slopes is the gap he'd identified.

He's just about through it when fire springs up in his path. He stumbles backward immediately, hand bracing against a tree, and the fire vanishes.

Dean takes another step forward. More fire.

He steps back and the fire fades.

He really is stuck here.  

The idea makes him feel more exhausted than he already is. The strap of his pack had seared chafe marks into his chest overnight, and running had only made the pain worse. He detaches himself from the pack and slings the strap over his arm, careful not to drop his things in the mud; there's no path there. Mosquitoes—only two or three; surprising, given how wet it is—land on his bare arm. He swats them with his free hand and climbs out of the mud onto the road again. He follows it back to the place where the horse had dropped him: a wide flat unpaved space gleaming with mud.

Dean picks his way through the mud and climbs onto a low platform of crumbling stone. Attached to this platform is a set of wide porch steps so worn and broken that the only clear path up them is directly ahead; the banisters lie in rubble and the side-stairs are more mud than stone.

The stairs themselves appear to lead nowhere. The ivy-covered cliff he'd seen from the road is before him, doorless, windowless, extending for a fair way in each direction, its edges smothered in trees. He might be able to scale it if he knew where it went; he does have rope. It is possible that this is the house his dad had mentioned—it's even likely—but it looks to him like the forest has already done its best to swallow this place up. He wouldn't want to live in there.

Well, he doesn't have to. Grimacing as new pain makes his chest tight, he retrieves his waterskin and drinks. The water is a day old and stale, but it's the best thing he's tasted in a long while; he goes to his knees on the stone platform, panting, and he is oddly glad to be alive. That horse had cleared the hedge, and he hasn't seen any demons yet. There may be time to find food, fresh water, someplace to sleep. The day is looking up.

He looks up at the wall of ivy and vines and breathes. He wipes sweat from his forehead and stands, approaching the wall on the solid path. When he is less than a foot from the wall of vines, a door-shaped hole opens in front of him with barely any noise.

"Looks like this is it," he says. And the monster's inviting him in. How nice.

Cautiously—like his father, if he'd known it—Dean enters in, silver knife drawn, poised on the balls of his feet and crouched low. It has the advantage here; he's in its territory. It hadn't managed to kill his father, and it won't kill him, either.

It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust from outside. When they do, he drops the knife incrementally and blinks, thinking that what he sees will change.

It doesn't. The house is _really_ not what he expects. Oh, his father hadn't told him much, and he hadn't anticipated much by way of living conditions, but what he finds is—surprising. In the first room he enters, there is a fireplace that is unlit but clean; a sturdy if scarred wooden table is laid out with bread and cheese, water and wine; there are three chairs at the table. As he walks toward the fire, a straw mattress and set of folded blankets become visible, tucked into a corner near the hearth. There's a window--filthy and covered with vegetation, but a little light comes in. It isn't fine living, certainly, but it's also not bad.

Tightening his grip on the knife, he sits down on one of the chairs and takes a very, very long drink of water; he drinks until he feels he's about to pass out. He wonders if it's possible to drown from drinking too much. After that, he upends the wine bottle and drinks a good half of that as well. The aftereffects of so much liquid are predictable; soon enough, he finds himself looking for a place to piss.

It is impossible to judge how old this place is—vegetation and dust make even the architectural bones difficult to place—and he can't even guess where a bathroom would be. He decides to relieve himself outside. The heat slaps him like a last insult; he stomps down the stone steps with more force than he probably needs and drops his pants near a tree.

"It's hot as Hell," he complains. Even the tree's shade doesn't provide much relief. He looks up and notices that he hasn't seen any birds—not even the ravens he'd seen all over the place last time. No birds, few bugs—it's like nothing lives here.

The thought makes him feel more exposed than he already is. He redresses hastily and turns away from the tree.

A sudden, sickening crack resounds from above him, and he jumps. He looks down trying to determine if he'd caused the sound somehow—stepped on a stick, or hit something against the tree accidentally; anything. But the ground here is a mix of stone and sun-baked mud; there aren't any sticks to snap. And there's nothing near the tree that could have made the sound. He unsheathes his silver knife and holds it at shoulder level.

With the hesitant, somewhat silly fear of a man that knows he'll be crapped on by birds, Dean looks up at the tree he's standing beneath. Like most of the trees nearby, it's alive, but barely; what few leaves it has, he can see beyond. He scans the branches, searching for the cause of the noise.

"Um, if there's someone here…" He stops talking. His voice echoes loudly, the wall behind him acting as an amplifier for the noise. He sees nothing and hears nothing; it's possible that he's hearing things. He turns, performing a panoramic surveillance of his own position. He wishes he could shake the terrible feeling of being watched. He's a hunter. Perhaps not as practiced or assured as his father, but he's a hunter nonetheless. He'd bagged his first werewolf at thirteen, with the silver knife he now holds in his hand. That provides some reassurance, but…how can he hunt something he can't see? Or hear?

His only comfort is that if his voice makes so much noise out here, anything else will, too. He'll have warning.

Dean moves closer to the house and sits on the steps, wiping sweat from his forehead on his shirt. He should not have drunk the wine. That was stupid of him. He's starting to feel tired now, and while that could easily be explained by the journey and the preceding concussion, he chooses to blame the wine because he'd drunk it most recently, and he figures adrenaline would keep him going if his exhaustion had a non-chemical cause.

There could also be a magical or demonic cause. There were some monsters that played with human senses. Some demons could, though Dean doesn't think that's common. He'd have given much to talk to Bobby; Bobby knows more about demons than anyone else in Lawrence. As far as Dean knows, he's the only man in town to face down a demon and win.

Though he's guessing, and guessing makes his stomach gnaw on itself like a dog on a meatless bone, he doesn't think the demon would tamper with his senses. He has more to fear from outright possession. He hopes Bobby's anti-possession tattoo works; he's never had to test it in practical demonstration before.

Thinking about the cause of his exhaustion is giving him a headache, which only makes him more exhausted. "Sleep," he says aloud, though he's not sure who or what he's talking to. He stumbles over to the straw mattress near the fire, unfolds a blanket over his shoulders, and is out soon after his head hits the thin pillow.

***

He's not asleep for long. Rain lashing against the window wakes him suddenly and unpleasantly. In two seconds, he's up off the mattress and on his feet, back to the corner to make it harder for anything to sneak up on him.

He's in the same room as before, but it's different now. The table is no longer scarred, but varnished, and the chairs are finished to match. There are four of them, not three. The floorboards are straight, even, and dustless. There are paintings on the wall—lots and lots of them. It looks almost like someone lives here—someone besides him. Someone who maintains and cleans.

Dean swallows. It's probably not impossible for someone to have done all this while he slept, but he thinks it highly unlikely. He's very light sleeper. Back to the wall, he finds the outer door and goes outside.

The rain falls in sheets, soaking him in moments, and he shivers; he pitches back inside instinctively and commences dripping on the hall rug.

Had that been there before?

No. No, he's sure the floor had been completely bare.

"Weird."

"Tell me about it."

The man's voice, low and sarcastic, nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He searches for where it came from, but can't see anyone. "Who's there?"

"Just me." A man emerges from one of the inner rooms. Dean hadn't noticed the other door being open in the gloom, but it is. He catches a glimpse of miraculously pristine hallway before he returns his attention to the man. He is utterly unfamiliar. He's about his height—maybe a little shorter—black hair, light eyes, though it's hard to tell their color. His skin is eerily pale, as if he's never been outside, and Dean catches himself thinking, _Spirit_ , but the man doesn't attack him like a ghost would.

"Who are you?"

The man doesn't answer. He adjusts a painting on the wall with a frown and moves past Dean.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"And you're not telling me who you are because…?"

For a moment, he gets the full brunt of the man's attention, eyes cutting into him like chips of ice. It's an uncomfortable sensation, like being pinned to the wall. "To say my name is to summon the demon," he explains patiently, as if teaching mathematics to a slow child.

"What demon?"

The man regards him sidelong, squinting his eyes. "Did you forget, Michael?"

Michael? "That's not—"

The outer door opens, revealing another figure drenched in rain. The man adjusting paintings shifts his attention immediately, and Dean crosses the room as well. The figure unwraps itself from layers of sodden cloth, revealing a mostly dry, blond-haired woman underneath. She turns toward Dean—

And Dean's definitely dreaming, because the woman he's looking at is his mother.

If he had to guess, he'd say he was seeing her just before she died. She has the small, slight scar under her eye that a thorn had given her some few months before—a scar that's not in her portrait. That scar makes her real to him, somehow; so real that he freezes and can't speak.

She frowns at him. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

He snaps out of his haze long enough to ask, indignant, "Why does everyone keep calling me Michael?"

Before he can get an answer, there's a loud knock on the closed door behind Mary. "Open up! Constable!"

Dean places himself reflexively in front of Mary; she's behind him now, and Dean hears the other man come back in.

"They're here," Mary says. "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop them—"

"Stop," the other man says. He gives Dean a meaningful look that Dean doesn't know how to interpret. The voice on the other side of the door yells, "If you don't open the door we'll break it down!"

The man fixes his intense stare on Mary. "Hide," he says. "Now."

"No! You—"

"We'll hold them off. Use the back door. Go!"

Mary rushes past Dean, more apparition than person.

"Get back," the man tells him. "That door won't hold for long."

The man is standing a little ahead of his shoulder in a fighting position. Dean thinks he looks ridiculous. "What the living Hell is going on?"

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be in this mess." The man steps away from him, rummaging in the corner. He pulls out a dusty rapier with rust spots on the hilt. He tosses it to Dean, who catches it.

"What's this for?"

The man rolls his eyes. "I paint, you fight," he says. "If it comes to it, I'll fight too."

As if in response to his declaration, the violent knocking of the door stops. The man smirks. "Good wood. They're not breaking through without a barricade."

Dean relaxes a little, but the other man doesn't. "Come on. I think they're going to set fire to the house."

The man is right; now that he's drawn attention to it, Dean can smell smoke. Possibly just torches, but fire can break through a door as well as anything else, assuming complete property destruction isn't a problem.

"Why?"

"They want Mary. That means they'll get in. It's just a matter of time."

Dean reflects that the rain is fortunate for them; the façade of the building refuses to burn in this storm, and on his brief expedition Dean had seen that the outer wall is brick and barren of ivy. If he had to guess, he's dreaming about this place as it had been in the past—back when people had lived here.

"What do we do?" he asks the man.

"Hold until the smoke gets too bad," he says. "Then follow Mary as best we can."

"Where?"

The man shrugs. "Lawrence. Mr. Singer prepared a wagon for us."

Bobby? What the Hell—

Flames lick over the edge of the windowsill of the room they're in, orange-white like fevered tongues. "That's our cue," the man says. "You go ahead. I'll stay until they come in."

Dean is tempted to argue—safety in numbers, and all—but the man is implacable. Dean doesn't think he'd be able to move him, even by force, right now.

"Be careful," he says. Then he follows Mary down the hallway she had taken.

The hall is lit by more fires; he sees them peeking out of two windows and consuming the wall in a crumbling, half-hearted way. "Thank God it's raining," he mutters. They must be burning something outside—or using an accelerant; he can't imagine that anything wood or stone would catch in this weather.

He finds Mary at the end of two long corridors—unfamiliar; Dean hasn't explored this building much in its deteriorated state. There is a set of double doors behind her, barred with a two-by-four. She sees him and asks, "Where is he?"

The other man? "He's coming," Dean says. "He told us to leave and he'd follow us to Bobby's."

She nods acknowledgement. "We need to wait for him."

Dean hears shouts down the hallway: two unfamiliar voices, as well as one that might be the other man's. "Yeah, I don't think that's an option." Dean plants himself in front of the door and heaves the two-by-four out of its grooves. To his horror, smoke escapes inward in billowy waves; in moments, he has ash stinging his eyes.

They'd set fire to every entrance. Dean screws his eyes shut, coughs, and forges forward, crudely crafting a way through the smoldering brush fire. His pants catch; he stomps the flame out and reaches for Mary behind him.

Her hand squeezes his, and he feels a surge of lightheaded relief. Using reserves of strength he didn't know he had, he lifts his mother overhead and pushes her out in front of him. This leaves Dean standing at the edge of the fire with her just on the outside, safe. Dean takes a deep breath and regrets it as soon as the ash hits his lungs.

Instead of moving away from the fire, Mary faces him and tries to force him out of her way. She's trying to go back inside—

"You need to get out of here, now," Dean says, grabbing Mary's shoulders and getting a handful of her shawl. "This place is going to burn!" He taps one hand on the sword the other man had given him. "I'll go back for him."

Mary uncovers her face a little and looks at him, eyes wide with shock. "What are you going to do? Michael!"

Dean shakes his head in denial, blinking rapidly to get the ash out of his eyes. He pushes Mary away from the fire again, and inhales deeply before coughing smoke. 

Mary pushes past him. He tries to grab her, yell, but she slips through his fingers.

Dean's sits bolt upright, sweating with blood in his eyes. He's in the same dusty and mostly disused room he'd fallen asleep in. The fire is nearly dead, and it's smoking horribly into the room, making Dean cough.

"Shit," Dean says after his coughing fit. He doesn't know what else to say to seeing his mother die in a dream. Dying suspiciously like she had in real life: by fire.

He hasn't had a nightmare in a long time.

He adjusts the ratty blanket over his shoulders and stares up at the cracked ceiling. He hates this place.              


	12. The Demon

It's night again, raining in the way that tells Castiel that it's summer. Lucifer has taken over, and Castiel has chosen to remain aloof, distant, while he kills the man. He'd rather not be present at all, but Lucifer demands his fees, his sacrifices, and Castiel must always watch. It's how they function.

The other man had arrived sometime in the hazy time between night and morning, a time when his parasitical relationship with Lucifer has blurry lines. Consequently, Castiel had managed to wrest control from the demon while the man had settled inside. Castiel had only seen him from a distance, perched in the trees overhead. Though Lucifer had wanted to spy closer, Castiel had refused.

"Do it when it's your turn. I'm leaving him alone."

As much as possible. Though he can't see much detail, he knows that this man is not the one Lucifer previously spared, which means Lucifer is free to kill him if he so chooses. If this is the man's last day on earth, Castiel wants to make it as pleasant and terror-free as possible. He'd arranged for food and a bed before the man's arrival, and the man himself does not appear terrified or coerced. Castiel had seen the glint of a knife a few times, but knives do not worry him. Nothing has injured Lucifer in any significant way in many years. They would be fine.

Castiel watches the man sit down on the stone steps outside. The man grips his head and rubs his eyes as if there's something wrong with them.

"Or he's just tired, dumbass."

Lucifer's voice coming from his throat is the only warning he gets before he's slammed against the walls of his own mind. He still owes Lucifer for sparing the other man, apparently. He had hoped that his ability to seize control, however briefly, had been a sign of the return of their normal hours—no such luck.

Lucifer is right about the man being tired. The man goes inside, and Lucifer creeps closer, toward the partially damaged entryway window. He lands on the roof and skids over to the chimney flue, from which he can lean down to see in the window. The man is stretched out on the mattress in the corner, asleep. Castiel wonders if he put too much valerian in the wine. He's never found the upper dose for himself.

Lucifer chuckles nastily. "C'mon, even you could wipe the guy out this way. It would be so easy—"

_I don't kill people._

"Whatever you say, sweetie."

Castiel mutters something profane and doesn't argue. He sees the man twitch in his sleep.

"Bad dream," Lucifer says. "Looks fun. Should we check on him?"

Castiel resists the thought...but he's tempted. He'd been too focused on saving the other man's life to dream-drop on him. Seeing others' dreams is the closest he can now get to dreaming himself, and he'd love to indulge—

"Do it," Lucifer urges. "He's dreaming about you anyway."

Castiel blinks.  _What?_

"Do it," Lucifer urges again.

With practiced ease, Lucifer drops to his seeing-window. With a precise lift of his talon, he unlatches the window from the outside. It comes loose from it partly charred frame, allowing him in.

The window makes noise when it opens and closes, but the man doesn't stir.

"What are you waiting for?"

Castiel dissociates himself as fully as he can from Lucifer, then hovers over the man. If he could see them both in his mirror, he wouldn't be able to tell them apart; his spirit-self is as alien and birdlike as Lucifer's. He can't cast a reflection, but his appearance in his own eyes reminds him that he is a monster exploiting a human.

He wants to dream, but he wishes for an easier, less invasive process. He also wishes that Lucifer wouldn't see everything he does—an obvious side effect of their permanent mental link.

 _Why are you letting me do this?_   

"What, I can't do something nice for you?"

 _Nice?!_  Castiel allows irritation into his tone.  _You aren't nice._

"I'm hurt."

 _You're not,_  he spits back.  _You want to dream, too. You—miss it._

Lucifer huffs. "And if I do? When did you start looking gift horses in the mouth?"

Today, apparently. Castiel reaches out one tentative wing and touches the man's back. He blinks, and when his eyes open, he's in the dream.

***

It's about the fire, like most of Castiel's memories; it even takes place in his house, when it was a house and not a broken ruin. Castiel blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to low light, and his hands come up of his own accord. He stares at them like he's never seen them before.

He has  _hands._  Not talons. Not wings. Hands, and skin. This is new, and vaguely disgusting; the wiggling pink appendages remind him of sausage. He picks at a dark spot on the back of his right hand in irritation before remembering the name for that spot: freckle. He has  _freckles_?

He hears someone else breathing heavily; it sounds like it's coming from the other end of the hall. He sees a man—familiar, though he can't quite place him. He's tall, tanned from work outside, and soaked from head to toe. He's about to say hello and offer a towel when the man mutters, "Weird."

Clearly, he hasn't seen Castiel yet. Castiel clears his throat. "Tell me about it."

The man jumps, putting his back to the wall. Castiel sees that he's left a wet spot on the carpet and is progressing to leave another one on his wall. He gets the feeling this man has ruined many of his things. The feeling increases his sense of familiarity between them, and he is surprised that the other man has not looked at him. Can he not see?

"Who's there?"

Castiel shrugs and moves closer, into the illumination of the hall lights. "Just me."

"Who are you?"

"I—" Castiel feels a grip, steady and piercing, at his throat, blocking his air, and he remembers.

Michael. This is Michael. This is the night of the fire. Just before—

Castiel doesn't want to think about how this dream will end. He notices a picture of his mother—a severe woman with a top bun and a frown like a cut—and makes it slightly askew in its frame.

He remembers Michael—maybe not everything, but he recalls providing shelter to him and Mary against the town's persecution. He remembers his mother, in broad strokes of disapproval. How is this possible? He had never been able to remember details of his life from dreams.

But he had also never dream-dropped in the head of anyone familiar with any part of his life story.

Had the other man sent back someone who knew Mary? Castiel hadn't seen the new one's face up close, but he'd appeared far younger than the other one.

"Can you hear me?" Michael asks in anxious tone.

Castiel struggles to pay adequate attention. "Yes." He is trying to figure out where the other man is. Castiel is not permitted to dream alone; the other man must be here somewhere.

"And you're not telling me who you are because…?"

Castiel is hit by a sudden flash of recollection; he nearly stumbles. He'd told Michael, "To say my name is to summon the demon."

"What demon?"

Lucifer. The demon to which Castiel had given his life, though not necessarily his soul. The demon of all demons, really: the first one. Castiel had agreed because—because—

Michael should know this. Castiel may not remember the reason he'd become transmogrified, but he remembers that it has something to do with Michael, and Mary. "Did you forget, Michael?"

Michael's forehead pinches together in the center in an expression of confusion. "That's not—"

The door slams open, revealing Mary soaking wet. She unfurls one of her shawls and shakes like a wet dog, though her hair and most of her clothing beneath the shawl is dry.

She nods to Castiel, then frowns. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

"Why does everyone keep calling me Michael?"

For a moment, Castiel is confused, but then he understands: this man—though he could be Michael's twin—is not Michael. That means he's the man dreaming. There's no one else here.

A loud shout cuts through Castiel's awareness: "Open up! Police!"

That voice is familiar, too. He watches as not-Michael puts himself in front of Mary defensively and snorts. Whoever is at the door is likely more than a match for three unarmed people.

"They're here," Mary says. "I'm sorry, I couldn't stop them—"

"Stop," Castiel says, the hand he's raised going to his forehead. Why isn't the dreaming man asking more questions? Why is he protecting Mary if he doesn't know who she is?      

The voice on the other side of the door yells, "If you don't open the door we'll break it down!" Castiel thinks the accent sounds thicker this time, almost foreign, as if the speaker has lived here a long time but had been born somewhere else.

Odd, being stuck inside a memory that isn't his, but that he is also a part of. It's making him dizzy.

A part of the door frame starts to splinter, and Castiel panics. "Hide," he says to Mary. No: hiding won't suffice. "Run. Now."

"No! You—"

"We'll hold them off," he says with much more assertion than he feels. "Use the back door. Go!"

Mary goes instantly, and Castiel feels the burrowing warmth of a feeling he can't identify. Trust? Friendship? Had he had these things?

Not-Michael stands his ground, and Castiel realizes he had included him in his statement of  _we_. 'We'll hold them off.' Not I.

Damn it. Even in dreams, Castiel is always 'we.'

He's in this man's dream until he wakes up. They are stuck with one another. "Get back," the says as the hinges break and creak along the door's edge. "That door won't hold for long."

Not-Michael pulls at his shoulder, physically yanking his attention away from the door. "What the living Hell is going on?"

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be in this mess," Castiel snaps. And that's true, as far as it goes. He knows the men on the other side of the door will resort to fire next, but the why of it all still eludes him. A glint of metal gets his attention in the corner of the room. He moves toward it, roots around in an old umbrella stand and pulls up an old sword: his father's. It feels clumsy in his hands. He tosses it to the other man, who catches it easily.

Not-Michael eyes the weapon mistrustfully. "What's this for?"

Castiel rolls his eyes, exasperation overcoming practicality. "I paint, you fight," he says. "Though if it comes to it, I'll fight too." Who else is there?

The pounding on the door stops with a suddenness like the silence after a clap of thunder. The doorframe is battered, but intact. The hinges are still attached at both ends, though both have been weakened at the top. Castiel smiles. "Good wood. They're not breaking through without a barricade."

Not-Michael does not respond, but his grip on the sword loosens slightly.

"Come on," Castiel says, gesturing for the man to follow him. "I think they're going to set fire to the house."

He doesn’t think it: he knows it. He hopes that Mary is already outside; if his recollection is correct, they'd tried burning the back entrance as well.

Instead of following him—or listening to him, as Mary had—Not-Michael resists. "Why?"

"They want Mary," Castiel says. He slows, turns; he can't ditch the dreaming man here alone. It wouldn't be fair, or right. "That means they'll get in. It's just a matter of time."

"What do we do?"

Castiel hesitates. They should run. He had run last time—for all the good it had done. Actually, it had done no good at all. Perhaps the only way to change the ending is to change what he does. "Hold until the smoke gets too bad," he says slowly. "Then follow Mary as best we can."

"Where?"

"Lawrence," Castiel says, though until that moment he'd all but forgotten the town's name. "Mr. Singer prepared a wagon for us."

Not-Michael's face lights up with recognition of the name, which Castiel takes as a positive sign. He gestures for Not-Michael to move, but he doesn't budge. Castiel watches the outside windowsill—made of wood, alas—crumble into ash, the flames tendrilling upward in a cruel parody of the building's present ivy.

Not-Michael isn't moving. He needs to say something. "That's our cue," he says, pointing to the fire pouring through the window. "You go ahead. I'll stay until they come in."

Not-Michael hesitates—but only for a moment. "Be careful," he says. Then he follows Mary down the hallway she had taken.

And here Castiel is, alone in the dream at last. 'I' instead of 'we.' When Not-Michael awakens, Lucifer will know everything, but Castiel can handle that. Right now, he has himself. His own body. No one else possessing him. 

Why on earth had he ever given himself up?

The top hinge comes off the door with a sound of splintering and clinking metal. Castiel steps away from the door, arms raised, unsure of what he can do. Lucifer provides him some protection, however tenuous; his human flesh, while desired, is not suited for combat.

The second hinge fails, and the door falls in with a whoosh of wind. Thunder follows in its wake. On the other side, a large, imposing man with dark hair and beady eyes regards him with a feral grin. Before Castiel can react, the man is hauling him bodily forward on his knife.

Castiel loses a few seconds as he falls; the rain outside moves in slow motion, and dark liquid seems to be flowing everywhere.

"How nice to find you in," his attacker says with a pleasant lilt. "I hope you don't mind us imposing on your hospitality." He turns around, away from Castiel, who regards the intruders fish-lipped and half-conscious. "Search the house."

Dark shapes move to either side of Castiel down the hall. So much for saving Mary. He hopes Not-Michael had convinced her to leave. Dream or not, there should be one version of the world where Mary lives.

The knife is still half in his wound. Feeling a sickly familiar sense of dissociation, he plucks the knife out with a low grunt and drives the weapon into his attacker's ankle. The man goes down, cursing blue streak.

"Damn you, Milton," the man says, grappling downward for the knife. His hands are everywhere, octopian, and Castiel wants to hack them off, so he slashes the knife upward. His own hands drop to the ground, and he uses the support of the floor to rise to his knees.

The knife comes up, but his attacker sees it and dodges. "Not giving up easily, are we?" the man asks with contempt. "Thought Lucifer would have had you tamed by now."

The sense of dissociation Castiel feels becomes stronger. There is a shattering quake outside: thunder striking too close. Castiel blinks at the sudden illumination; the man grabs his arm and hauls him upright, making his gut wound throb in time with his heart.

Slowly—so slowly, yet simultaneously with alarming swiftness—the hair on the arm beneath the other man's hand widens, flattens, sharpens into feathers. His hand goes next, absorbed into deceptive, soft-looking feathers that hide the sharp protrusions in his wing. Bones crack, lengthen, and reform: it's painless but bizarre, and Castiel can do nothing but watch.

His attacker regards him with a slack jaw, but seems unable to move. He would be easy to kill. But Castiel does not remember killing this man. He must have gotten away. As the transformation moves up his arm, Castiel's spine arches forward like a cat's, contorting so far that he feels it's about to leave his skeleton. The wing joint breaks from his atlas bone, and he flaps his new appendage for the first time, dislodging the man's hand and knocking him to the floor.

Oddly, Castiel's transfiguration slows as soon as the man is down. He breathes, more smoke than air, as feathers black as ink crawl over his remaining skin.

Then the creeping sensation stops, leaving him half-human, half transformed. His twisted face sneers at his fallen attacker. Lucifer speaks from his throat, chuckling gleefully: "Home, sweet home."

***

The dreaming man wakes with a start, gasping, and Lucifer snakes back, into the shadowy corner of the room farthest from the window. Castiel is instantly snapped back into his shared awareness with Lucifer. While he's relieved, he's also somewhat disappointed.

 _That was close_ , Castiel says.  _Why didn't you extract us before?_

Lucifer doesn't answer; they're too close to the now-awakened man. The sound of the rain outside covers some of the noise of Lucifer's escape. Castiel plants the idea of possibly banking up the fire in the grate, but Lucifer, predictably, refuses. He uses the time Lucifer needs away from him to mine the dream for detail. All dreams grant him hints, pictures; things he can use to remember himself.

The dream had not been entirely unusual. It had been about the fire, like most of his remaining memories. However, his memories keep him stuck there; Lucifer has consumed most of his human experiences. This time, Mary had been there, and Michael—two friends he recalls the names of, but little else. They had tried to escape the burning house with him, and they had all failed—him more spectacularly than the others.

He doesn’t understand why the dream had been so specific. It is almost like the dreaming man had been there, but that's impossible. He's too young.

Lucifer crawls out of the room silently and slowly, attempting invisibility. The man's breathing slows to a calm rhythm, but Castiel sees that his eyes are open in the dark. Castiel spares a moment to be surprised that Lucifer doesn't kill him now. Hadn't he gotten what he wanted?

Maybe not. Maybe he's just as surprised as Castiel is about the vividness of the dream.

"You're thinking too loud," Lucifer hisses at him in a bitter whisper.

Castiel curls himself into a ball in his own mind, attempting with his few resources to make himself small, unnoticeable. He feels Lucifer rummaging through his recent experiences, getting caught up, and usually he would resist this plundering but he's too tired.

A burgeoning warmth, like pleasant drowsiness after a meal, grows in Castiel; he finds it hard to suppress. The dream had returned a unique detail to him, and he prizes it highly: he remembers his career. He had been a painter, primarily of portraits. He had glimpsed a few hanging in the hall, including the one of Mary he'd traded to the other man. There had been so many, and he has a dim memory of them all, unclear but present, like an image viewed through amber.

He recalls that he'd become a painter because he'd preferred to go through life as an observer. He had never been particularly attached to people, or to ideas. He had liked painting and been good at it, so he had cultivated the skill with an easy and detached dedication. His childhood friend Uriel had accused him of loving paint more than people at the age of nine or ten, and he hadn't been far wrong. In general, Castiel has always distrusted passion. It misleads. Passion—hatred—toward the demon would have made his existence much harder, so he is fortunate that he'd made a career of cultivating dispassion.

He had become a painter because his subjects were still and his creations were inert. His projection of dispassion hid the fact that he would have loved to love something, someone—hid it even from himself. His pictures had granted him an outlet: he could love them purely without fear of losing them—or destroying them.

He had destroyed everything in his passion to help. He has forgotten important pieces of those memories, but not their lesson.

"You're moody again," Lucifer observes. They're outside now, in the twilight world between day and night, and it's raining a little. "Thinking about old times?"

Yes. He remembers painting Mary's portrait, but he doesn't recall much about the woman it depicts. He remembers how he mixed the paint. He'd ruined two shirts because of carelessness; she'd been distracting. Had he been in love with her?

Lucifer snorts. Castiel allows himself to indulge in one of his tricks: he punches into the wall that separates his and Lucifer's minds.

"Sorry, chief, but the idea of you in love with anyone is hilarious."

And the sad thing is, Lucifer is kind of right. It stands to reason that his most important memories, the ones most cherished and least likely to be forgotten, would be those of love, but he doesn't have any of those. Not clear ones.

Maybe Lucifer had devoured them.

Or maybe they'd never existed. Maybe his cultivation of dispassion had been so complete that he'd never really loved anyone. He'd become a monster on the outside at some point in the indeterminate past, but maybe he'd always been one on the inside.

"I like where this is going," Lucifer says, yawning hugely.

Castiel wishes Lucifer would shut up.

"I'm hurt," Lucifer says. "And everyone says you're the nice one. If they only knew…"

Castiel uncurls a bit and asks,  _Why didn't you kill him?_

Lucifer shrugs. "I will. I want to mine what he knows first." A pause. "Besides, I want you to kill him. It would be so much more fun to watch."

Castiel is more horrified by the fact that he's not horrified that this suggestion than he is by the suggestion itself.  _No._

"You can't say no," Lucifer says in a sing-song tone. "I spared the other one. Time to pay the piper." He shrugs again, shaking out his wings.

_You can't make me._

"True. But I can make life very unpleasant for you. I know more about you than you do yourself." He huffs something like a laugh. "What's the big deal? You've killed people before."

_Not in a long time._

"Is it the blood that bothers you? Human sacrifice, beefing up, all that? Or something else?"

_Shut up._

"You recognized that girl in the painting. You dreamed about her. That man in there has something to do with her. That's what this is about."

No. Yes. He doesn't know what it's about. He'd hoped the merchant would come back himself. Failing that, he'd hoped that he'd send someone like Mary—someone that looked and acted like her, so that he could remember. This man clearly is connected to Mary, but he doesn't know how. He'd felt something looking at that portrait—something familiar and unsettling, but still not specific enough to pin to the wall.

Lucifer had demanded some sort of price from the first man, and Castiel is unwilling to kill anyone—and Lucifer doesn't tend to collect non-lethal prices. That is how they've reached this impasse.

However, Lucifer is owed a soul. If it's not this man, it's going to be the next one they see. That's certain, and Castiel knows it.

Lucifer chuckles nastily. "That's right, Cassie," he says. "The next one that sees us. If it's a child—an infant—it dies. Even if you're in control." A pause. "Deal?"

The next one to see them?  _The man hasn’t seen me yet._

“Yes.”

_You’re including him in this?_

“Yes. You owe me him. And I want it to be you that kills him. Now—do we have a deal, or should I seal you away and have some uninterrupted fun for a few days?”

Castiel wants to deny him this, but he can't. He's pushed his own control too far.

 _Deal_.

He wishes he had hands. He feels the need to grip something, like his world is slipping. He's promised Lucifer the next soul they meet—the next one that sees them. He hates himself. He wishes he could strangle his own throat. But he's bodiless, and even if he were in control, it would be pointless. As long as Lucifer survives, he will, too.

The sun is setting, and it's raining again; a gentle summer storm. Castiel pulls away from Lucifer, as far away as he can. For a moment before the sun fades, he gains control of his limbs again, feeling foreign after the brief taste he'd been afforded of his former body.

Castiel closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and listens to the rain.


	13. Exploration

Dean swims up from the bottom of a black sleep. He doesn't remember falling asleep again, and he'd learned the location of every crack in the plaster and every web on the ceiling before he'd dropped off. The familiar vista spreads before him like a map, but he doesn't know how to read it.

Judging by the quality of the light outside, he'd slept for most of a day and night; it's still dark, but grayish, like haze. He sits up, rubs grit out of his eyes, swallows the feeling of cotton in the back of his mouth. A lot of cotton. It feels like someone drugged him and his mind rushes down its own well-worn streets with panic as the driver. He's on his feet in an instant, searching the room for the demon—or any sign of any other person, or monster.

He finds none. The low table next to his mattress is once again laden with food. The sluggishness he's fighting does not make him less hungry, but he resists the urge to eat until he's devised a strategy. He doesn't want to be at the mercy of this thing. He heads outside, flimsy half-charred door difficult to fight against the ivy coating it, and discovers rainwater in a trough.

Of course, the demon could have poisoned that, too, but he's got to drink something and the river is a mile away at least; his memory for distance is hazy through the constant internal chant of _food-water-safety_. He cups water in his hands and drinks ravenously until he feels full, his gut expanding with the water. He knows the sensation won't last long, but he's grateful for it.

Dean collapses next to the water trough and leans his back against it. This early in the day, it is still cool, and the house looks like one of those Romantic ruins Sam tacks up pictures of. Peaceful. Not like a place a demon would live. His stomach growls its anger at getting only water, and he braces himself upright to search for food.

He doesn't have to look far; cattails in the surrounding swampy areas are edible if unappetizing, and the blackberry bushes are right on the tail end of production. He'd love to find some raspberries—he knows they're in the forest—but those are rare. He'd also do a lot for meat, or bread, but the stuff on the table can't be trusted. Nothing here can, but he trusts what he gathers more than what's left in his path by—whatever's here.

Dean has difficulty crediting a demon with this setup. He's never encountered one in the wild, so to speak, but his father has and he's read his father's case logs. Most demons focus on finding a chink in the armor—some way to possess their victim, make the poor person do their bidding, and either release or kill them as they see fit. This demon is not following pattern. For one thing, demons aren't shy; he should have seen some sign of it by now.

Since it hasn’t, he’ll have to look for it.

Why can’t the demon behave like one?

As Dean explores, he sees that the house is set up as a small series of large rooms rather than as a large set of small ones. This tells him the building hadn't formerly been an inn or shop, and likely hadn't been the home of any nobleman. A tradesman, probably. Guildsman, going by the size of the place.

Though large, the building has been poorly maintained: left in a storm and set to rot. Even in the low light, Dean perceives cracked baseboards, warped floors, spots in the roof where the forest has come indoors. There are plants everywhere: creeping ivy and wisteria are most prominent, but weeds grow too, tenacious in the cracks between floorboards. The plants are concentrated near the windows and light: that makes sense. Only one of the rooms has a completely functional door with a knob, and it's locked. The only locked door in the place, and it vexes him. He doesn't really want to explore this place—he's probably safer staying put and fortifying his position—but whatever is giving him food had also drugged him. And then, mysteriously, not killed or possessed him. He needs to find it. Whatever it is, it’s horribly confusing.

Dean would understand the demon killing him outright better than drugging him and leaving him alone. A normal monster would have killed him last night. Demons, though, could be insidious. Dean wonders if it had taken anything from him while he slept. While none of his possessions—even the silver knife—are missing, that doesn't necessarily mean he'd survived the night unscathed. His father had thought himself safe in this place—until morning.

It's morning now; the sun peeks behind clouds grown wispy from the frequent rain. With his search of the house complete—sans the locked door—Dean decides to go back outside and see what he can determine about where he is. He’d also like to find a weapon capable of hacking down that damned door, since he thinks the demon is probably hiding behind it like a coward.

The house, as it turns out, is part of a larger complex that includes several outbuildings; likely storage sheds, stables, silos, things like that. Most have fallen into three- or two-walled ruin, but three of them are still standing. He decides to check out the largest first.

As he gets closer, he reasons that he’s walking into either a barn or a stable, judging by the faint smell of old manure clinging to the air around it. The door he uses is hanging off one desperately creaky hinge, and he thinks he'll have to fix that; he’d seen some rusted tools in the house that might be usable. He should probably start keeping a list of all the things that need repair. After all, he's going to be here until he kills the demon or the demon kills him—whatever comes first. This is home, for the immediate future.

The building is dark—unlit, obviously—and enormous. Dean takes a few steps in and can't see anything. He returns back to the main house for a candle, grateful to find a long taper mostly unused. The fire is almost dead, but he uses a dull poker to get the spark he needs.

When he returns to the stable to look around, he really wishes he hadn't bothered.

This is a stable, all right—or, it had been. Every single horse here is dead.

In the dim light afforded by the candle, Dean sees the bleached bones of upright horses in every stall he passes, their empty eye sockets regarding him with something like judgment or blame.

Dean has the sudden impulse to burn the stable, and the house too for good measure, and then go home and tell his dad there was no monster. He wants to wipe this place off the face of the earth--but it also makes him sad. This place had once housed life—a lot of it—and it’s dead now. Dead like Dean’s own prospects.

He had come here for Sammy. If he somehow makes it past the fire wall and leaves without killing the demon, the demon will come for the town’s hunters—starting with his family. Even though he has limited proof of this demon’s existence, it’s too dangerous, and difficult, for him to head back to Lawrence without being sure. But if he stays here—in this mausoleum, this prison in ruins—he’ll go crazy.

Dean would rather live in the woods. Seriously.

But if he can’t do that, then he’ll make this place livable.

 

***

 

Dean spends the morning and afternoon clearing the outbuildings. He leaves the stables with their disturbing bones alone for the day, unsure of how to tackle them; the other two standing buildings are a toolshed and a grain barn with some odd objects wrapped in paper. He gathers tools from the shed—mostly still unrusted and functional, from what he can tell—and sets them up along the wall of the main room of the house, where he’s been sleeping. The grain in the barn has mostly sprouted or rotted, but he finds one sack that must have been completely bleached by the sun, because the grains are uncracked and still solid. He may soon have the luxury of bread.

He leaves the paper packages where they are, deciding to unwrap them another day, and takes one of the bags of sprouted grain outside. He figures he’ll start a grain garden. He’d undeniably feel better if he's able to feed himself consistently, and the muddy terrain outside should make for reasonably fertile soil. He’ll just have to remember not to trample on the seeds.

When the sun passes the midday mark, Dean pauses for a break, heading down to the river for a drink. The river is indeed downhill, and to the south; so far his knowledge of the forest held true. He wishes he remembered to bring a waterskin or other vessel to hold water; he’d have to plan better tomorrow.

Assuming he was still here.

Assuming the demon didn’t find and kill him tonight.

Damn it. Dean hates when his thoughts won’t leave him alone. The eerie silence of this place is uncanny. It makes him miss Sam. Hell, Bobby. Adam. Anyone.

He’d known what he was getting into, coming here by himself, but he’d really expected company—friendly or not—by now. Maybe this demon works by driving its victims crazy. “Keep a happy thought,” he tells himself.

He drinks until he’s no longer thirsty, then keeps drinking until he feels full. He’s heading back to the house with his shirt wet, feeling good if a trifle hungry, when the thunderheads start rolling in from above. Lightning forks in the sky, and Dean begins to run.

As he runs, he reflects that midsummer storm season is not the best time to live unsheltered in the forest.

The rain that comes down is cold, making his skin clammy; he runs faster, trying to warm himself, when something plonks on his forehead—something solid and slightly sharp.

Hail.

“Shit,” he says, and he runs so fast he’s practically flying. Hail bites into him, a hundred tiny teeth, and when he sees the main house he lets out a whoop like victory. His feet are barely touching the ground anymore, and he makes the last few steps in a mad rush that has him stumbling past the door to the relative safety afforded by the mansion's roof.

The door slams behind him, loud. Thunder rolls through the ground like an earthquake. It's dark in here—the sky had gone almost black as night—but it's dry. Dean tosses off his sodden clothes in a rush, teeth clacking, fingers turning blue. Specks of hail fall out of his hair and clatter to the floor. He pokes at the failing fire in the room with a poker, bringing it unsteadily back to life. Then he casts about for something to wear—a blanket, a rag, some goddamn pants—anything—but his blanket from the previous night is gone, and he can't go around wearing his mattress.

Dean lunges from room to room as if drunk or insane, searching for a way to get warm. He comes up with a dust-covered sheet draped over a low, long piece of furniture in the room adjoining his sleeping area. He grabs the sheet double-fisted and starts drying himself off at the legs, moving up to his hair; he stays by the fire until he's dry, and when he is no longer shivering badly, he ties the now-sodden and rather dirty sheet around his waist.

The sheet he'd stolen reveals a long dining room table with whorls carved into its splayed, curved legs. The cloth had done its job; the surface is clean and smooth and gleaming faintly in the light of the fire, though Dean bets it would look better with some polish.

It's what's behind the table, though, that gets Dean's attention.

There are pictures carved and painted into the wall: dozens of them, tiny and large, organized in neat rows in one spot and messy in another, as if they were created at different times: planned by different minds and executed by warring hands.

Most of the pictures are hidden by the edge of the table; that explains why he hadn't seen them before. He shifts the table a foot or so from the wall and shimmies down, crouching with the table at his back, in order to get a better look at the pictures. Crouching dislodges the sheet around his middle, but he doesn't notice.

Each image has slightly different assorted colors and textures, suggesting they were created individually, not like graffiti, but as an iterative collection. Most are done in black, but he sees figures in blue and red and green as well, some in chalk, some pen, some mediums he doesn't recognize, all with varied levels of detail. Most of the figures don't have faces.

All of them seem to have one thing in common, though: wings. The largest image is about the size of his hand, with bird-like black wings sprouting from its shoulders; the smallest, done in uncharacteristic white, has a curved waist and butterfly wings—one of the only notably gendered figures. The collection of images spans the entire length of where the table had been, all the way across and down, but not a single line of the collection escapes the confines of the table's lines. It's as if someone had hidden under it and scribbled these.

Yes, but hidden from what? The demon?

He's sitting there on the floor when he hears the noise. He turns to look, but a voice like grit and gravel says, "Don't turn around," in a tone of command. Dean's head shifts fractionally over his shoulder, but he sees nothing.

"Move your head another inch and I will kill you."

Dean fixes his eyes straight ahead, toward the wall of angel pictures.

"Are you frightened?"

Dean's shoulders straighten. "No. Why can't I turn around?" Silence. "Is this some kind of game?" _Are you hunting me?_ Was this the demon? He's never heard of them talking much to people. The strange duality of this place—feeding him and drugging him, offering safety and hemming him in with fire—clashes in his mind, and he's struck with a sudden idea. "Nothing personal, pal, but it's not exactly hospitable for a host to stalk his guests like this."

"Are you my guest?" The voice has been getting louder by degrees—its owner must be moving closer.

Demons don't talk to people. They don't feed people or look after their comfort or safety. They have no reason to. Therefore Dean is talking to something else. If Sam were here, he might have applauded Dean's logic. Dean tilts his head a little to the side, but doesn't look over his shoulder. "I'm Dean. Are you my host?" Another irritating silence. Dean goes on, "I thought there were only monsters in these parts. Not people."

"People," the voice echoes flatly.

That's—not encouraging, actually. Dean wonders again if he's speaking to the demon that threatened his father. After all, the demon hadn't killed his father, either. "Can I turn aro—"

"No," the voice says, and the tone of command is back. "You are here on behalf of another?"

"Yeah, my dad," Dean says. "He told us you'd kill him, so…here I am. I cleaned out your silos and stuff, trying to be useful while I'm here—"

"—You came here willingly?" the voice cuts him off. Instead of cold command or brusqueness, Dean hears a low lilt like uncertainty marking the speaker's tone, and he really, really wants to turn around. "Did your father tell you nothing?"

The idea that he doesn't know the whole story nags at Dean, but he's irritated enough without this psycho, potentially demonic stranger drawing attention to that, so he snaps, "I know enough, okay?"

"Did he force you to come?"

"No."

"You made this sacrifice for your father, sight unseen?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but it's dissatisfying; he isn't facing who or whatever is exasperating him. "No, it's not—look, I'm here for Sammy. He's my brother. And my dad, too, sure, but if my kid brother can't marry his girl, the family's going to fall apart. So I'm here."

A short silence behind him is broken only by the sound of water dripping somewhere nearby. "And your family would not fall apart without you?" The uncertainty is back in that tone again, and Dean thinks it's really fucking unfair that he can't see the person that would ask a question like that so casually.

And he just thought of the potential demon as a person, which isn't helpful.

"That's not fair, sir," Dean says, because he has to call the guy something other than "guy" or "you" or "demon" or "asshole," which could be viewed as disrespectful. Ordinarily he doesn't care about such things, but the dude had just threatened to kill him not too long ago. Judging by how close the voice is, they could probably do it easily. Dean's literally been caught with his pants down. His dad would be ashamed. "You put this on us, not me."

"I suppose." A pause. "I will come and speak to you again tomorrow. But you must not turn and see me."

"Why?"

Silence. This time, silence that lasts. Dean turns around and sees nothing but the black dark.

When he returns to the main room with the fire, he discovers the blanket he'd been so frantically searching for before peeking out from underneath his mattress. He should really start making the bed.


	14. The Amulet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And look, it's the Samulet. :) The backstory of it is a little different, and not all of it is given here, but it will be traced, in the end, back to Bobby.

 "He's not sleeping," Lucifer says in a low voice. "No dream dropping for you. Looks like you scared him."

_Understandable._

Castiel hadn't meant to run into the man—Dean—at all. He'd been caught in the rain about an hour before sunset, stumbled into his house soaking wet, and seen him there before him. For a split second, instinct had taken over, and he'd wanted to treat the man as the intruder that he was. He's not used to sharing space with anyone. Lucifer had chuckled delight and glee—looks like he'd be able to kill the man after all—so Castiel had said the first thing that had come into his head.

And that had been the truth. If the man had turned completely around, and seen him, Lucifer would have taken control early and killed him.

The man had no reason to trust him, and Castiel didn't understand why he had, but he is grateful for the temporary reprieve. He had wanted to dose himself up with valerian—double or triple strength—so that Lucifer would be sluggish overnight. Even if he's angry all day tomorrow, it would have been worth it.

However, Lucifer had resisted that plan with more force than usual. _We can't be sleepy,_ he had insisted, and what's most disconcerting about this is that he'd sounded honest. Lucifer is pissed about something, and it's not just Dean. Castiel would be able to tell if that's all it was. That spirit is still here, and Lucifer is terrified of it.

So Castiel hadn't drunk down all the valerian he'd harvested after all. Instead he sits in his locked room with Lucifer, spying on the house through the demon's magic mirror.

The mirror is fairly harmless in and of itself, especially when used for its intended purpose. It's an appropriated relic; an antique from Castiel's former life passed on by some Milton matriarch or other. Infused with Lucifer's magic, it depicts scenes of whatever the viewer wishes to see. It's also two-way, but only from here. The subjects in the mirror do not know they're being spied on, and Castiel—or Lucifer—is able to drop in on anything he sees, and return back to this room, in mere moments.

The mirror acts as a camera that compresses space. Castiel had seen a camera once, a long time ago in the city, and had treated it with a portrait painter's ambivalence. The gift of photography—and the mirror—is that is displays things exactly as they are. No commentary, no enhancement, no slant, no characterization. The images move, but they're dead-looking to him. It must be that his perspective has changed.

Away from this spot, the mirror would be an ordinary mirror. It is the room—the place beneath his feet, behind another locked door—that is enchanted with the ability to grant visions of the desired. Lucifer enjoys gazing into it, gnawing the dregs of his wants while plotting his freedom. Castiel rarely indulges in the use of the mirror, but he finds it useful now that he—they—have a guest.

Dean isn't sleeping. Castiel supposed he would find it difficult to sleep if accosted by a complete stranger in a strange place—and Dean already knows about his demonic counterpart. He watches Dean exploring the house, curious. _I don't want you talking to him._

"Is that a request or an order?"

_If he looks at us, you can kill him. Until then, leave him alone._

Lucifer shrugs. "Fine." Lucifer nudges the frame of the mirror, and the scene expands outward, across the woods to the town on the other side.

Lucifer—and Castiel—can see Lawrence from here, and Lucifer has long taken particular interest in some of the town's residents. Castiel doesn't remember all of them, but Lucifer curses Crowley quite a bit in passing, especially when he sees something he doesn't like.

The image comes into focus, revealing a man so burned that his face is unrecognizable. "Dammit," Lucifer says. "I was afraid of that."

_What? Did the fire get one of yours?_

"Shut up."

Castiel doesn't know what Lucifer is looking for, or what he wants to learn, but he knows Lucifer has a plan. That plan involves ridding himself of Castiel somehow. Probably unpleasantly. But Castiel knows that there's only one way to break the spell that binds them.

"If one of us dies," Lucifer recites in a dull tone, "so does the other. I know, stupid. But I wouldn't be the first person to come back from the dead."

 _Ha._ Lucifer, comparing himself to Jesus. _Blasphemy._

Lucifer snorts. "Like that shocks you anymore."

Castiel is tempted to respond, but a gentle melancholia tugs at him. Suicide is also blasphemy. Not that he hasn't tried, but…someone else has to kill them. Maybe Dean will.

"I wouldn't count on it." Lucifer banishes the image, restoring the mirror to an ordinary reflective surface. "I'm hungry."

They're going hunting.

 

***

 

Castiel keeps his distance from Dean in the morning, choosing to remain near Lucifer's hunting spot until midday. He washes blood and other fluids from his feathers and talons with grim resignation, grateful that Lucifer had chosen a spot near the river for his sport this time.

 When he returns home, it's by air, and he uses as much tree cover as possible to disguise his approach. He enters his room from above and settles himself before the magic mirror with fletching sticks, ropes, and a few sharp stones. He makes arrows as he watches the man move around the house in the mirror's image.

 _We don't need arrows, you dolt,_ Lucifer says. _Nothing is coming for us, and the talons are more effective anyway._

"How do you know what we need?" Castiel sets aside a piece of wood that curved too much in the curing process. "If more hunters come, we need an arsenal."

_And reinforcements?_

"Maybe."

Lucifer chuckles, and despite himself, Castiel is glad of the sound. Lucifer has been crabbier than usual for many days, and when he's crabby he's much more difficult to rein in.

_I am not crabby. I am justifiably outraged at being imprisoned in your inferior body._

"Glad we got that sorted out."

Lucifer curses, but there's no venom in it. Nothing cheers Lucifer up more than the thought of a battle. _We could get the demons to give us weapons._

"Sure," Castiel says. "But maybe I'm bored." He'd caught the itch to make something after seeing the paintings in Dean's dream. He can't paint in his current state, but he can do other things. Lucifer is content to leave him alone, the carrot of ordering weapons from demons hanging over his head, him practically salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.

It's wending on toward evening when Castiel puts his tools away. He has eighteen new arrows, and has started the curing process for several more; he's glad he doesn't get splinters in this body. He sees that Dean is outside, so he uses the opportunity to sneak out and refresh the food, water and fire in the first room. He notes with some satisfaction that Dean is drinking the water now, even if the food remains untouched. The wine, too.

 _Shame,_ Lucifer says. _That's good stuff._

Castiel twists the cork off the bottle and takes a swig. It's sweet, peachy, like summertime and roses. When the bitterness comes, it's something of a shock.

Lucifer snorts. _Not much of a drinker, are we?_

"No. I never was." He looks out the dusty window at the fading sun. Dean is faintly visible, returning to the house. He needs to hide.

_Or we could just kill him and end this nonsense._

"Not yet. We just need to avoid him." From Castiel's observations, it appears that Dean has seen everything in the house—except Lucifer and Castiel's room.

_And?_

"And, what?"

_There's the other door, you know._

Castiel knows. He has kept that locked for many reasons, not least of which is that he himself doesn't want the temptation of what's behind it. That door drives people mad. Though Lucifer cackles with glee at the idea of a mad host, having nothing to fear from madness himself, Castiel finds the idea of turning his guest into a raver with a craving for something he can never have abhorrent.

That door is what grants the mirror its power to see the unseen, but that is only a fraction of what the real spell under the house can do. He has seen men stumble into the trapdoor and come out in dreams they never wake from. That is why he has placed so many locks; so many safeguards. The final door stays shut—for his own protection, and everyone else's.

_Wait ‘til it’s my turn again, bitch, and we’ll see who opens the door._

“If you kill him, you will break our agreement.”

 _Driving him crazy isn’t the same as killing him,_ Lucifer insists, kicking at the edge of Castiel’s mind. Castiel swallows the shock and doesn’t react to Lucifer’s bullying. _You're bored? **I’m** fucking bored._

“Kill whatever you want in the forest when it’s your turn.”

 _No, that's boring._ He makes the word sound like a curse, harsh. _You still owe me something._

"What do you want?"

_To talk to your precious pet._

"Not my pet," Castiel says, "and no."

Lucifer makes a sound like a keening wail, and Castiel covers his ears even though that will do no good. He hates when Lucifer does this. He's been known to keep it up for days, if mad enough. Through the pain building in his head, Castiel grits out, "Tell me what would satisfy you."

_Nothing but my freedom._

"I can't give you that." Castiel's ears are ringing. "Something else."

_Killing the pet._

"You can't go back on our deal."

_I'm renegotiating the terms._

The pounding rhythm in his head is fast--too fast to be connected to his heartbeat. It's time for Castiel to play his trump card. The only thing that ever shuts Lucifer up. Gripping his head gingerly, so as not to cut himself, Castiel uses his free hand guide himself rapidly to their hidden room. The lock opens by magic, a subtle click in his mind, and then he's on his knees with both hands to his head, but there's no way to stop this once it starts.

In the far-left corner facing the door is a wooden chest of drawers, and the top drawer contains a box that Castiel almost never opens. He rips the drawer out and grips the box so hard he damages it—

And Lucifer shuts up.

_You're not using that on me again. I'll kill you._

"You've tried. You know we can't kill each other." Castiel opens the box carefully, revealing the amulet inside.

It doesn't look like much. The metal it's made of—brass, or maybe copper—is rusted in places, and its gleam is blackened with age. It's small, the size of a fingernail, much smaller than even his tiniest talon, carved with a placid face and horns.

He remembers this amulet. He had found it on the corpse of a hunter, a long time ago—before he'd lost so much of himself; become so ridden with holes.

Lucifer makes a sound like a sharp inhalation. _Don't—_

Castiel touches the amulet, and the searing pain of fire courses through his veins like a canoe in a riptide. Castiel collapses, Lucifer with him, into numb unconsciousness. As his eyes blink closed, he sees the impression of bright wings, like a hallucinatory corona.

 

***

 

When Castiel comes to, it's night, and Lucifer is still unconscious. It's a relief, but not exactly a good sign. Lucifer should have woken up to take his turn. The longer he's out, the madder he'll be when he wakes. His vision focuses, and he gets a glimpse of the gigantic wings he'd painted on the ceiling—back when he could wrest enough control away from Lucifer to paint. Back when he'd still had one of his hands.

He hasn't looked at that image—really looked—in a long time. This room is filled with graffiti—some Lucifer's, some his—and he doesn't remember who decided to paint this one, but he remembers doing most of the work. The wings are impressionistic, huge; as large as the room is across, and the edges are blurred, indistinct, out of focus. The center is where the detail is: the bony protrusions where the feathers attach are nearly visible, and the outline of the spine of those wings is vivid: every vertebra etched.

He had intended to paint himself—all of himself—but he had lost control of his hand before that could happen. After he'd fully transformed, he had never even tried to paint or draw himself. As it is, it's just something he wants to do before he dies. Or, rather, he'd wanted that when it was possible.

Castiel takes a deep breath. His wings fold around him, protective; he is careful not to let them too near the amulet. He gets up, peeling the amulet from his skin and replacing it in its box. Then he leaves his room, entering the house, escaping his forever unfinished self-portrait.

When the amulet had first fallen into his possession, he had used it frequently, using it to buy himself reprieve at night. The problem is that the amulet—even when worn against his slippery befeathered skin—burns. Badly. Keeping it on for more than a minute at a time is torture; there is a bare red patch on his chest now, and it aches like someone cut out his heart.

The other problem is that no matter how much Castiel uses the amulet—and he once nearly burned off all his skin—Lucifer always comes back. He comes back ready to enact cosmic change. Toppling civilizations. Causing the seas to rise. Murdering everything and everyone and throwing it all into a hole so deep and dark it may as well be a hole in the universe.

If Castiel didn't have him trapped here, he would do all that and more. Castiel breathes again, closing his eyes, thinking. He doesn't know how much time he has.

"Someone there?"

Dean's voice stuns him momentarily, but he doesn't make a sound. Castiel straightens up suddenly and seeks the shadow of the corner. "It's me."

"Oh, you again," Dean says, and what's so disconcerting about him is that he doesn't seem scared, yet also doesn't turn around. It's bizarre. He blinks a few times, extending his vision in the dark, and identifies Dean in the doorway of the lightless room. The corner Castiel is in is to the right and backwards; as long as he doesn't move, Dean shouldn't see him.

"Don't turn around," Castiel says, but it's somewhat peremptory.

"Don't turn, got it." Dean's hand makes a whispering sound when he rests it against the doorframe. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who—or what—you are."

"No," Castiel says, and the word sounds cold, cruel; not exactly what he'd intended to convey.

"But you're going to kill me if I try to find out?"

"Yes." He has no choice.

Then Dean does something completely unexpected: he laughs.

Castiel is taken aback. He expects Lucifer to go off on some rabid tirade and insist that Dean be killed, but Lucifer is silent. For the moment, they are alone.

Dean stops laughing, seemingly as unnerved as Castiel. He sucks in a breath, and asks on an exhale, "Why?"

Castiel frowns. "Why?"

"Yeah. Why do I need to see you for you to kill me? Why not just kill me?"

"I might." Something in his chest loosens; he feels light as air. Lucifer is gone and he's alone. Even if Dean sees him, he won't have to kill him. Maybe. But Lucifer could wake up at any moment—

Dean leans against the doorframe again, arms overhead, framing his head. "You won't."

"You seem awfully sure."

To Castiel's chagrin, Dean starts laughing again. “If you’d wanted to kill me, you could have done it a hundred different ways by now. I don’t get your weird desire to hide, but whatever.”

"Hide?"

“I’m not allowed to see you. Isn’t that hiding?”

“No. You wouldn’t like what you see.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

“Perhaps. But you’re not.”

Dean huffs and takes his hands off the doorframe. “You’re exasperating.”

Castiel smirks, the halves of his beak clacking together with a small sound. “As are you.”

“Are you even real?”

Of course he's real. For a split second, he's tempted to tell Dean everything. He's rarely without Lucifer—and he's never been by himself when faced with another person. Like a child, unselfconsciously, he reaches out for help. "I—" Maybe he can use Dean's dreams as some kind of bridge; a way to confirm he's telling the truth.

Then he feels the lurching, sharp pain of Lucifer awakening: nails on a chalkboard magnified times a thousand. A sharp iron hook latches to his navel, and he pitches forward, holding his head, desperate not to make a sound.

“Turn around," Castiel grits out, Lucifer speaking through him, "and I’ll gut you.”

Dean mutters something unintelligible that sounds like cursing. The he says slowly, in stops and starts like machinery in need of oil, “You’re—a demon.”

It's Lucifer's turn to laugh. “Half right.”

“Ah. Does that mean you only half-lie?”

 _You're not allowed to kill him,_ Castiel insists, reminding him through their link. _He hasn't seen us yet._

Lucifer growls and says, “I have no obligation to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah, and you have no obligation to keep me alive, either,” Dean says. “Who says I don’t just take my chances and turn around?”

“You would be dead before you hit the floor.”

“You sound awfully sure.”

“I am.”

Lucifer's eyes—and Castiel's, bound tightly to him; Lucifer wants him close—lock on Dean's shoulders as he starts to turn.

Dean turns completely around. Castiel can see his face.

He's dead.

Lucifer grins, and it hurts. Castiel can't shut this out. He's not allowed to drift away; Lucifer wants to punish him. _A shame_ , Lucifer says through their link. _I so wanted you to be the one to kill him._

Lucifer rises, spreading his wings wide, but Dean doesn't react much; the room is too dark, the motion too silent. Lucifer's talons clack on the floor, loud like nails being hammered into wood, and Dean faces him squarely as he steps closer, mouth opened in an O of shock.

Castiel fights. He kicks at the sides of Lucifer's mental prison, bouncing around his confines like a rubber ball, gaining force with each impact. Lucifer snaps their beak together, irritated, but keeps advancing.

Despite his shock, Dean isn't running. His feet are planted firm to the ground, shoulders square, fists near his face. There's a knife in one fist, but Dean is otherwise unarmed, unarmored. Lucifer flicks one wing casually toward the knife, removing it from his grip easy as anything, and loops the other wing around to push Dean back, into the other room.

Dean stands his ground, but not easily; Castiel sees the place where Lucifer's wing bone cuts through his shoulder, the wound extending toward his ribs. Lucifer's other wing comes up to carve an identical wound on the other side, and Dean dodges the blow, ducks, rolls, and puts his back to the corner.

He's essentially pinned to the wall: nowhere to run. Castiel wants to close his eyes, but he's not in control right now.

Lucifer's wings retract and expand; he can't fly in here, so he'll have to bludgeon Dean to death. Dean places his hands up and squats, making himself small, as Lucifer's wings bear down on him.

A wing bites air; something sharp and pronged gouges his shoulderblade, stuck in the tough muscle there. Dean must have found another weapon. Lucifer howls in rage, instinctively shrinking backward before attacking again.

Before Lucifer's next hit can connect, a figure appears in front of Dean, unidentifiable, wreathed in light.

A figure on fire.

Lucifer stumbles back a step, and Castiel feels the edges of his wings burn, burn, burn. The fire eats at the empty places inside, ashing the void that used to possess them, pain vivid and terrible. The floor rushes up to meet him, and he feels Lucifer panic as they pass out.


	15. Fight

Dean doesn't sleep that night, at all. Instead he takes a candle and searches the house for workable supplies. He hasn't seen the demon—yet—but he knows that it, or something that serves it, is here. He repeats every word of their weird conversation in his mind, trying to figure out what the hell the thing wants. Not to kill him, obviously, at least not yet. So it either doesn't want to kill him—which is a stretch at best—or it wants to and is waiting for something. A sign, a signal, a specific date. Some monsters killed on a schedule.

His exploration of the house had turned up no place that could hide the monster—creature—whatever it was, except behind the locked door. He needs all the tools he can get—he's going to break in.

 He's sick of waiting for this thing to kill him. He intends to take the fight to it.

The search he'd done of the house before hadn't turned up much: a broom so old it was useless for its intended purpose, a rusted hammer, nails, rags. And while the broom handle is something, he'd be happier with something like pliers, or a wrench—something he can use to beat or finesse the door down.

The inside of the house turns up nothing new of use, so he opts to search the sheds next. He takes a torch outside, the thin light illuminating his way. The silo where he'd found the grain has a pitchfork; the handle is in terrible shape but the metal prongs are still sharp. It's not going to help at all to open the door, but it could make a good weapon. Dean takes it back to the house, and keeps searching.

The other outbuildings give him nothing but a hacking cough from dust. He's tramping back to the house in the full dark, irritated and half-tripping at every step, when he remembers the stable. He peeks in the door, relieved that his light doesn't show him much by way of the horse bones, and enters in.

He stays near the walls and stable doors, unwilling to get a handful of dead horse. Near the back of the building there's an alcove with a broken padlock on the door. Dean pushes the door open and steps into the alcove.

It's dusty like everything else, but it appears to be a toolshed of sorts. It's a shame so many of the tools are for grooming horses; he needs something with more heft. Fumbling awkwardly because he needs to keep the torch aloft to search—he really doesn't want to set this place on fire—he runs his free hand along the alcove walls, and hits a shelf.

 Crowbar.

Yahtzee.

Dean grips the tool and tugs it up, into the light. Part of the tooth is chipped off, but its curve is suitable and strong.

"That'll do," he mutters to himself. He steps out of the alcove carefully and returns to the house.

***

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have done; he blinks and gets an eyeful of sun. There is nothing visible around him—no demon attacked him during the night—but he kicks himself angrily in the shin anyway. "You need to stay up," he tells himself, and is somewhat alarmed at how much talking to himself he's doing lately. He could use some coffee. Like, all of the coffee. That would help him stay awake.

But he doesn't have coffee. He just has the threat of a terrifying demonic creature that's trapped him here and is chasing him around for no clearly defined reason.

That's enough. At least, it should be. He should be terrified. His conversation with the—thing—though, hadn't been terrifying, just odd. He gets the feeling that whatever it is doesn't really want to kill him, at least not right now.

It keeps trying to feed him, for one thing—Dean sees that the food and water that had been left for him the previous day are still there, untouched. Dean is tempted to scarf it all down; he's just had a night of poor sleep and could use the energy, but he doesn't trust where this food comes from.

That means foraging again, at least until he feels strong enough to attack the locked door with the crowbar.

Dean considers for a moment. He's exhausted—little sleep, less food, lots of work, no help. His hand is reaching for the bread that's been left out before he can stop it. He brings it to his mouth with grim resignation, anxiety gnawing his empty gut like acid. He's testing a theory. His theory is that the thing he keeps hearing doesn't want him dead yet. In that, they have something in common—something significant, considering this thing is demonic.

He polishes off the bread and fruit, feeling better, full and alert, and also extremely disappointed with himself.

When ten minutes pass and there are no obvious signs of poisoning, Dean gets up, takes the crowbar, and approaches the locked door.

The crown molding above it is so thick it's essentially a shelf. The entire door is dustless—marking it, distinctly, from its surroundings. This door is used. The lack of footprints worries him somewhat, but lots of monsters he'd met are as paranoid as him, and as good at covering their tracks.

He has no doubt he's dealing with something clever. The door itself is an ordinary paneled thing with a simple design. In fact it is entirely normal—just like one of the doors in Dean's own home—except that it has no knob, or even a place where a knob should be.

He knocks experimentally; the resounding thud is reassuring, almost melodic, which tells him the door's core is solid wood. If Sam were here—

Well, if Sam were here, he'd have a lot more problems. Best to focus on the ones he's responsible for at the moment. He takes up his rusty crowbar and places the crumbling teeth along a long edge. He pushes, putting his shoulder into the shove.

The damned thing won't budge.

Well, he hadn't expected it to on the first try. He shoves again, using the other shoulder; his free hand pries the crowbar to an angle of about thirty degrees, and Dean catches a glimpse of darkness: the gap where the door opens.

Then the crowbar slips from his hands, slamming his arms as the door snaps shut along the narrow opening. Dean grunts and frowns at the door. "Oh, it's on," Dean mutters. He notes that the crowbar hadn't done any damage at all to the door—not even to the paint. It's probably magic.

Well, the impossibility of the task isn't about to keep him from trying. It's not like he has anything better to do. He goes at the door with all the force of a physical attack, trying every angle—even the top and bottom; even the side with the hinges—but though he manages to squeeze it open half an inch or so a few times, it's firm in its moorings and won't come loose.

So Dean turns his attention to the hinges.

He had found a screwdriver among the tools in the house, but the head is too large for the pins in the hinges, which are, as far as he can tell, about as large as dressmaker pins. They should not be as tough as they are. He bludgeons the hinges with his crowbar, yelling wordlessly in frustration, but the door faces him, changeless and indomitable.

He's dripping sweat by noon. He decides to take a break. The food in the main room hasn't been replaced yet, so he rushes outside for a meager meal of berries and water. Then he returns to his task, attempting dogged tirelessness, but mustering up only panicked exhaustion.

He doesn't want to sleep in here. The demon is almost certainly on the other side of that door. His vision is blurry: the food hadn't done him as much good as he'd hoped, considering he's been working all day. He needs to sit.

Dean curls up in the corner of the room just outside the one with the locked door, making himself small. He grips his silver knife steadily in one hand to reassure himself, breathing, thinking. There's got to be a way to attack this. Brute strength obviously isn't working. He's not going to be able to stay awake much longer, but returning to the main room seems like a bad idea; the demon knows to find him there. Again he finds himself wishing for Sam. Hell, Jo. Bobby. Ellen. Any hunter that could take a shift so that he could rest in peace for a few hours.

The position isn't comfortable, but it's down, and Dean falls asleep somewhere between two thoughts without knowing exactly how it happened. 

***

Dean wakes to the semi-darkness of early evening. He's still in the corner he'd fallen asleep in, upright, his grip on the knife surprisingly firm considering his sleepy state. There's an ache in his shoulders and neck that makes him feel like he's been lugging heavy stones, but he ignores it. He's alive, and he has a problem to solve.

He springs to his feet, nearly losing his balance, and rummages for the crowbar. Finding it, he grips it in his free hand and progresses to the room with the locked door. Before he steps fully into the room, he hears the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing. He stops in the doorway, and asks softly, "Someone there?"

He has no need to be quiet. Most monsters see better in the dark than people do. He's hoping—based on the fact that he hadn't been killed in his sleep—that the nice version of the demon that leaves him food is currently in control.

The harsh breathing slows, and Dean hears the voice, familiar: "It's me."

"Oh, you again." Dean keeps his tone light, pleasant. He's leaned against the doorjamb with his weapons to hand, and though he should be frightened, he's calm. This is what he wanted. He'd only tried to break the door down because he'd wanted to face this thing head-on.

"Don't turn around," the voice says, which tells Dean something about the monster's placement. It's definitely in the room before him, though, not behind—so if he can turn in the doorway and see it, then it must be in a corner near the door.

"Don't turn, got it." Dean sets down the crowbar with a muffled thud and grips the doorframe harder. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who—or what—you are."

The voice answers, "No."

Dean waits for a moment before replying, as if for some kind of echo. Tentatively, he asks, "But you're going to kill me if I try to find out?"

"Yes."

Terse. But not cruel, or particularly threatening—though it seems like this situation could turn that way at any time. Dean falls back, automatically and unselfconsciously, on one of his oldest strategies for diffusing tension, one he'd used often when his father and brother fought: he laughs.

It's not humorous, exactly, or comfortable, but it loosens something in his chest. The longer it goes on, the better he feels. When was the last time he'd laughed? At home, certainly, but he couldn't remember exactly when. There is no response from the other voice, and his laughter dies a slow death in his throat. "Why?" he asks the dark.

"Why?"

Yes. That's the key to this. "Yeah. Why do I need to see you for you to kill me?" He swallows heavily, leaning into the door. "Why not just kill me?"

"I might," the voice hisses, but it's softer. Almost human. Dean is unsettled by how rationally he's able to talk with it.  

"You won't," Dean says, and it's emphatically not a question. This thing won't kill him unless he gives it a reason. He'd almost be willing to stake his life on it. It still hasn't attacked him. Aside from that first night's anomaly, there's been nothing wrong with his food. The demon hadn't even attacked him in his sleep.

There's a sharp sound like nails scraping over wood. The voice replies, "You seem awfully sure."

Dean doesn't know how to respond to that, so he laughs again, easy, though there's a note of panic beneath it that he attempts to shake. This entire situation is ridiculous. He's a hunter here to kill a demon, but the demon won't attack him. Dean doesn't think it even _can._

As a younger man, he might have just killed the thing and asked no questions, like his dad. Now, though, he's reluctant. The demon hadn't killed his dad—hadn't even taken his soul. And he's convinced it couldn't have killed the waggoneers, either. Or Jo. If Dean was forced to guess, he'd say that whatever he's talking to is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's essentially harmless, like the rest of the forest.

“If you’d wanted to kill me, you could have done it a hundred different ways by now," Dean says. The voice doesn't contradict him. "I don’t get your weird desire to hide, but whatever.”

“Hide?”

“I’m not allowed to see you. Isn’t that hiding?”

“No. You wouldn’t like what you see.”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” Since when did monsters give a shit about how they appeared to others?

“Perhaps. But you’re not.”

Dean pushes off the door, shaking his head. “You’re exasperating.”

“As are you.”

Dean had been pitched off-kilter by their previous conversation; this one seems impossible. The longer this goes on, the more he's tempted to believe his theory that this thing is harmless. Or, if not harmless—“Are you even real?”

The question's out before he can examine it. There's a long silence. Dean's shoulder's tense, the grip around his knife becoming just short of painfully tight.

The voice chokes in the darkness, "I—"

Dean waits.

A few seconds later, the voice forces out, “Turn around, and I'll gut you."

The voice is the same, but warped. Something subtle has changed. Dean mutters, "Shit, you're—the demon."

The laugh he hears is pinched and forced, like choking. “Half right.”

“Ah." The switch Dean had noticed is real, then. "Does that mean you only half-lie?”

A ferocious, animal sound. “I have no obligation to tell you the truth.”

“Yeah, and you have no obligation to keep me alive, either,” Dean says. “Who says I don’t just take my chances and turn around?” This is it. The monster that threatened his father. He's still not sure why it stops at threats. Most monsters are more aggressive.

“You would be dead before you hit the floor.”

“You sound confident.”

“I am.”

So is Dean. He's prolonged this game long enough. He turns toward the corner where the voice is coming from. At first, he doesn't see much; the light in this room is crap and he doesn't have a torch or candle. As his eyes adjust, though, he makes out a shadow: huge, tall, wide. A clacking sound echoes around him, making him think the ceiling is falling in, but the building remains as it is: ruined, but stable. He steps back, momentarily alarmed, but doesn't run. It's monster-killing time.

The monster steps closer, and Dean takes in the details of it with the calm dispassion of a hundred hunts. Bird wings, eight or ten feet across, sharp protrusions from the wings, lots of feathers, red dead eyes. A beak and talons that look sharp enough to cut near damn near anything. Otherwise humanoid. And Dean has his knife, and the crowbar, somewhere—

The monster moves its left wing toward the knife, and Dean tries to hold on but only puts his shoulder in the way of the bony protrusion. The blow shoves him back, into the previous room; Dean sucks in a ragged breath full of pain and doesn't look at the damage. There'll be time for that later. Right now the other wing is coming for him.

Curling himself around his wound, Dean lunges out of the way and throws himself into the corner farthest from the monster, seeking space to regroup. The monster itself seems hindered by the smaller room; it can't fully extend its wings, and the mass of chaotic limbs in front of him lacks the focus it had had in the previous room. Dean sees the crowbar he'd dropped a little out of reach; while the monster thrashes around, he gets a half-grip on the curve and pulls it back to himself. Then he sets both his hands to the sides of the corner he's crouched in and gets down, presenting as small a target as possible.

When the wings get close again, Dean thrusts the sharp edge of the crowbar's teeth into the meat of the wing attacking him with everything he's got, his chest thrumming panic and the pain of a thousand needles going in at once. The monster howls, stepping back, wrenching the crowbar out of Dean's hands.

No more weapons. There's nothing to hide behind. Dean's arms come up above him, protecting his head as he keeps his eyes open, determined even now to find some way out of this mess. There's a hot sharp pain from his shoulder to his navel that sharpens his awareness. When the fire appears with all the sudden unexpectedness of Sam in front of him, he moves quickly around and behind it.

And now the monster is on fire. It rears back from Dean, screaming the high-pitched shriek of a dying animal, and falls. Still, and burning. Dean gulps in a breath and smells charred flesh. There is still fire, free-standing, in front of him, but he doesn't understand what it's burning—or if it's burning anything at all. The fire moves, a pillar of light, until it's directly in front of him; he shifts, but it follows him, licking at his skin.

He expects it to hurt, and it does, but it's the pain of cauterization, not the pain of his flesh being consumed. His shoulder aches deep, but warmth spreads through his body in a way that's almost pleasant. He's not burning. He's healing. He struggles, trying to get up, but the flame pillar exerts pressure to hold him still. The warmth spreads, furling out from his chest like an orchid's petals, and he falls asleep.

***

Dean comes to on someone's couch, a roaring fire next to him and a blanket over him. He's too hot, but he's also comfortable and doesn't want to move. He groans and sits up—or tries to, but a tearing sensation in his shoulder keeps him down.

"Stay still."

he voice is familiar. He knows it, but he's not sure where it's from. He focuses in the direction of the voice and sees a face floating above him, almost disembodied in the half-dark. It's the man from his dream about the fire; the one that had stayed behind while his mother had run. His eyes gleam in the light of the fire like pieces of sky. Dean blinks. "Who are you?"

The man ducks his head with a little half-smile. "I can't tell you that. Now, stay there."

There's a stool next to the couch: low, wooden, scuffed. The man takes it up in one hand, draws it close to Dean, and drops into his seat. He's got a rag in his other hand, and at first Dean thinks he's going to use it to clean his shoulder, but instead he feels something cloying and sticky against his skin.

"What the hell?"

The man's hand draws back, and he frowns. "Sorry, Michael," he says. "It's honey. From my bees. It'll disinfect your wound—and help it close. Without stitches."

Michael again. He'd have to ask about that, but he wants to know who this man is.  "Why?"

The man's frown pulls deeper. "I'd rather not have you die of infection—"

"No," Dean says, cutting him off. "No. I mean, why won't you tell me who you are? Your name?"

The man tilts his head to the side, toward the hall, eyes shimmering like water in the dark. "Saying my name summons the monster. I'd rather not do that right now."

Dean nods a little shakily. The man resumes cleaning his wound with his honeyed rag. The fabric catches his skin uncomfortably, causing him to gasp. At least if he dies in this dream, the worst that can happen is that he'll wake up.

"You can't tell me your name," Dean mutters. "Fine." Dean stares up at the ceiling, its lines and grooves familiar from his waking existence. He is in a real place, and he recognizes it, but he is seeing it before it became ruined. That should be impossible. He's had detailed dreams before, but this— "What can you tell me?"

The man shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "This is—not a normal dream."

Dean does sit up a little this time, distracted from the pain by the man's admission of something being decidedly off. "You don't say."

The man nods. "There is a spirit in this house. We are in her memory, safe—for now. From—the other me."

"The other you?"

"That is what I call the demon, instead of either of our names."

"Right. Wouldn't want to summon it." Dean's eyes drop closed for a moment. "I think I just fought you. Out there. Or, what's left of you."

The man nods. "A long time ago, I took on a burden I wasn't ready for. I'm—disappointed. I had hoped never to devolve so far as to attack another person."

"Why did you do it?"

"What?"

"Take—whatever that thing is—on?"

The man sighs. "Well, it was either me or Mary, and I didn't have to promise my soul to save her, just my life. So I made the trade."

"Mary." His mother.

"Yes."

"Mary Campbell?"

"That's her maiden name. She's been a Winchester for six years."

Dean does the math in his mind, but it doesn't add up. The fire had happened when he was four, and his parents had only been married that long plus a few months. Not six years.

And now he asks his second question: "Tell me—who is Michael?"

"Michael?" The man frowns. "But I thought—" The man nods. "Never mind. Come with me. Get up slowly and don't disturb the honey, or I _will_ come back with a wheelchair."

The man is down the hall before Dean can blink, and he gets up carefully. The shock of cold puckers his skin as he steps away from the blankets and the fire, and he shivers.

At the end of the hall, the man pauses with his hand on an antique doorknob, half-rusted. Dean knows this room; it's the one he'd been attacked in. The other man beckons him, then opens the door and goes inside.

Dean follows at a more leisurely pace; his shoulder is sending spikes of pain toward his hip, making walking uncomfortable. While the other man putters in a corner—Dean sees the familiar hearth, disused in his own time, outside the dream—he searches for someplace to sit.

It seems the other man had thought of that as well. He sees Dean and points to the opposite corner, where a thick, overstuffed ottoman sits against the wall. Dean collapses onto it gratefully. His hand comes up to his shoulder, but he remembers not to touch it at the last second—honey is very sticky.

The other man sits next to him on the ottoman. As the fire burns brighter, Dean notices more of the details of the room: the crown molding on the ceiling, the rugs on the floor that are wide and look expensive but are also severely scuffed. Mostly, though, he notices the pictures. Lots and lots of them, in gold frames all around the room, gleaming in the low light. He starts counting all the frames and loses track at twenty-four.

The vast majority of the pictures are of people. He sees two landscapes—one looks a lot like the forest outside—but it's mostly faces staring at him out of the dark. Most of them are not smiling, but the feeling he gets from all those eyes on him isn't hostile. He finds a picture of a young girl with a daisy chain in her hair particularly striking—mainly because aside from her bright black hair, she's covered in mud, and grinning like a maniac. It looks like something out of real life.

He stares at the other man, who isn't looking at him or any of the pictures. His expression is oddly vacant. "Hey," Dean says to make him look over. "Did you paint these?"

"Yes."

He hums to himself. His eyes are drawn to the little girl's, vivid as sparks, and he feels like she must be alive, somewhere. "They're good."

The man winces. "Thanks."

"Why did you bring me in here, anyway?"

The painter points to a frame that sits just to the left of the hearth, where the light is best. Dean straightens up momentarily, blinks, and looks over to the man again. "What—is that—"

"It's not you," the man says simply. He points to the painting again. "That's Michael."

He's looking at the spitting image of himself. An expensive mirror from Prague would not have given him a better likeness as a reflection. It's a forest scene—hence why it hadn't initially stuck out to him, among all the close-up portraits—but the resemblance is unmistakable. He's standing in the middle of the road, arrow drawn to a longbow, directly facing the painter. His eyes are greener than the trees, and the look in them is determined, focused, accentuated by the slight brush of freckles on his cheekbones. Dappled sunlight falls on his skin and clothes, making him blend with the background—but he also focuses it, as if the forest was born of him and not the other way around.

Dean is almost intimidated by the image. He thinks the guy might even be wearing his boots, and that is just—

"I'm really not Michael," Dean says, though the more he looks at the picture, the more difficult he finds that to believe.

The painter frowns at him. "No," he says. "You're someone else. If I had to guess, I'd say you're a close relative. Is anyone in your family named Michael?"

"No," he says. As far as he knows, his dad is an only child, as was his mother. His grandfathers were named Henry and Samuel. He doesn't even remember a Michelle on either side of the family.

"I see," the man says. "Well, I've been rude. You're not Michael. What's your name?"

Dean swallows and faces the man squarely. His eyes are unsettling: pools that drown the unwary. He feels like all his secrets are being read. "I'm Dean," he says. "Dean Winchester."

"Ah." The man puts out his hand, and Dean shakes it clumsily.

The man keeps staring at him long past the point of comfort. "Michael's surname was the same. I suppose he was always the black sheep."

"Black sheep? Why?"

The man shrugs. "Maybe because of his break with his father. Maybe for his marriage. Maybe because he's a witch."

"What?"

The man nods. "A white witch. Rare, but they happen." The man sighs. "I'm only really friends with Mary. I don't know him very well—never did. I painted that for her, for their wedding." He sounds sad.

Dean doesn't know when he is, so he asks, "What happened to them? Where are they?"

The painter's gaze becomes sharp enough to cut. "You know that already," he says. "They're dead. They died in the fire. And for some reason, you're here to remind me of that."

Dean's jaw snaps closed. "Sorry," he says. He sits next to the painter and watches the fire, waiting to wake up.


	16. Reprieve

Castiel comes awake by slow stages; an ant trapped on the surface of the water. He doesn't know how long it takes him to become fully conscious, but the vision of a bright light in the distance pulls him inexorably awake. Or maybe he's dying, and that's the light at the end of the tunnel.

"No such luck," a light voice says, and he feels something warm moving on his face. "Time to get up."

Castiel groans and buries his head under one wing. As the wings move, he grimaces; two tendons are torn and he's still bleeding. Black feathers stuck together with blood and dust cause his damaged skin to sting like vinegar on a raw cut. He sighs and sits up gingerly, using his taloned feet for balance. When he's able to focus his eyes, he identifies the light that had haunted his darkness.

It's Mary—the girl in his painting; his last painting—and her skirt is on fire.

For a moment Castiel panics, then realizes she isn't burning anything. The window behind her reveals that it is night. "Lucifer—"

"—has been taken care of, for the moment," Mary says. She bites her lip and runs one hand through her hair. "Temporary, I'm afraid, but it's all I can do."

Castiel nods, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath that causes shoots of pain like threads of a spiderweb to weave out through his wings. "Mary," he says. "How are you—"

"—here?" she asks, gesturing around the room. "It's a good question. I don't—" She shakes her head, then looks toward the unconscious man on the floor. "Dean is my son," she says. "But when I saw him last, he was four, and now—"

She pauses and doesn't speak for a long time. Castiel isn't sure what to say. Dean hasn't moved. "Is he—" Castiel starts, but his throat feels clogged. He coughs and spits out a few drops of blood. "Is he dead?"

"No," Mary says quickly. "I've put him to sleep." Her expression is soft. "His wound is healed. I helped you, but didn't have much left to spare." She pauses again, then fixes her gray-green eyes on him in a way that reminds him of tempered steel. "Don't wake him, and don't spy. He won't remember the attack. I've made sure of it."

She's erased his memory of the attack? "Why?"

"Because you're not a monster," she says simply. "If anyone could figure that out, it's my son. I don't want you two destroying one another."

"How—" He really wishes that he could remember more about her. More than that she'd been someone he'd painted; more than her being here on the night of the fire. That should be enough for him to trust her—maybe—but it's not. "How did you recognize me?"

Her lips quirk up in a half-smile. "Your voice is different," she says. "And I can't say I like the new look. But no one else has eyes like yours. And—" She shrugs. "You move the same. Even without hands, you talk with them."

Castiel is about to protest, then realizes his injured wings are moving to express the sentiment along with him and shuts up. Making a special effort to keep his wings still, he says, "I may—have to kill him. Still." Castiel lets out another slow breath. Breathing is becoming easier. In one way, it's a relief, but he'd rather deal with Lucifer struggling for air than Lucifer whole and well. "When Lucifer comes back, he'll kill Dean."

"No, he won't."

"Yes, he will," Castiel says. "You don't understand—"

Mary's steely eyes come into full focus, as if she were alive, and in that moment she looks a lot like Dean: determined and stubborn and strangely indomitable, as if nothing he could say or do would break her. "Then explain it to me."

"Another man came here, before," Castiel says, his words coming out in a rush. He hasn't had an honest-to-God face-to-face conversation with another person since…well, he can't remember, and the experience makes him nervous. Even talking to Dean had made him nervous. Though, regrettably, nerves hadn't prevented him from getting as close as possible. "Lucifer wanted to kill him, so I told him no. Dean came here in the other man's place—"

 Mary's eyes widen. "That was probably John," she says. "Jesus."

Castiel talks over her—not on purpose, but because now that he's started talking, he finds it difficult to stop. "—and Lucifer told me we had to kill the next person who sees us, and that's Dean." Castiel stops and swallows. He's partially in this situation because of Lucifer, but part of this is his fault. He misses people. He's talking to a ghost and he aches for his old life, his lost memories, and he can scarcely handle the feeling. "He's seen us. When Lucifer wakes up—"

Mary nods a little sadly. She tilts her head a little to the side: a curious motion. "And what if he hadn't seen you?"

"What?"

"I've erased this encounter from his mind. He won't remember being attacked by you."

"Lucifer will remember."

Mary's brows furrow together for a moment. "Can't you—make him forget? Repress the memory?"

He shakes his head. "He sees what I see. In a lot of ways, we're the same." Castiel's head keeps shaking, along with the rest of his body; he can't help it. Mary stands there, staring at him, and he realizes something.

"Lucifer saw _you_ ," he says slowly. "Before Dean saw us. You were between us, during the attack. And before that, even—" Castiel struggles to remember; Lucifer's encounter with the new spirit had been mere days ago, but it felt like more time had passed. "He complained about you being in the house."

Mary frowns. "How does that help?"

"I never agreed to kill the first person that saw us. Only the first thing—the first soul. And if you saw us first—"

"—then it's me you've got to kill." Mary's frown lifts a bit. "Clever, Castiel."

The sound of his name warms something in his chest, but he's too caught up in his idea to savor it. Someone knowing his name, and using it—and Lucifer not appearing. It seems miraculous. "I assume you're attached to something in the house."

"You assume right," she says. "But I don't know what it is. Something's tying me here. I can't get past the fire at the gate."

Castiel thinks for a moment, weighing options. What in the house would Mary's spirit be attached to? "The portrait?"

Mary shrugs, unperturbed. "I don't know." Her expression remains clear. "If you let Lucifer destroy it—and I'm gone—will he let Dean live?"

Castiel's shoulders collapse inward, wings hugging himself in a gesture of self-comfort. "If I can convince him that Dean hasn't seen us—that he doesn't know who we are—then yes. I think I can convince Lucifer to spare him."

Of course, that's a temporary solution. Dean will almost certainly see him again. It's only a matter of time. And though he will no longer be under coercion to kill him, if Lucifer is the one in control, that is exactly what will happen.

"Do it," Mary says. "Burn the portrait."

"It may be safer to let him do that," Castiel says. "If I do it, he'll accuse me of trying to cover something up." Castiel has to be honest with Lucifer; Lucifer will remember this conversation with Mary with perfect clarity, as if he'd experienced it himself. "Plus, it will give him something to destroy. He'll like that."

Mary nods. "So I guess this is goodbye."

Castiel is again at a loss for words. He scarcely remembers this woman, who is looking at him like he hung the moon. "I thought we said goodbye already. The fire—"

She's smiling again. "Well, yeah. But I don't think either of us expected us to survive that." Some sudden thought hollows her cheeks, making her appear skeletal for a second; then she flashes back, her image appearing far more solid than it should for someone who's been dead so many years. "I'll help you where I can," Mary says. "That demon is strong, and smart. But I think there's another way to kill the it—a way that will leave you alive."

"But not you." Castiel doesn't need more guilt; he doesn't. But he takes it. He doesn't have much left to cling to of what he was.

 "Find it," Mary says. "Find a way to save yourself."

Castiel is about to reply, but in his next breath, she vanishes; he hears her soft, "Goodbye." Castiel is left in the dark, bleeding, with Dean passed out next to him.

So much for help. 

***

The room seems colder without Mary in it, as if the fire catching at her skirt had been real after all. The silence of the house, usually reassuring, becomes oppressive combined with the absolute darkness. Castiel sits up, tucking his wings close to his body, and takes in the shadowy shape of the unconscious man in front of him. He'll have to get him back to the main room, somehow. If he wakes up here, he'll know something happened—something violent—even if he doesn't remember exactly what.

Castiel wants light. He wants light and heat and conflagration. He wants to destroy himself before he destroys anything else. But those wants are useless; irrelevant. First he has to get Dean back to the main room. Then he should rebuild the fire. Somewhere in there, he'll have to bind the wing that's still bleeding, and when that's done he'll need to clean the blood up in here and the hall.

Immediately, he sees the problem. If he moves Dean before cleaning himself up, then Dean will be covered in his blood—a hard thing to explain away. And Dean's not stupid; he'd managed to find weapons that could harm Lucifer, even in this place.

There's no way he can make it to the stream and back in this condition. He'll have to use magic for this. He spreads his wings out, searching for something to bite. He comes up with a file so dusty that he nearly chokes when he bites down, but he knows he'll need it.

Castiel has used up most of his own resources fighting Lucifer, which means he'll need to tap Lucifer's magic to heal. With Lucifer knocked out, it will feel like sucking ice through a straw. There's also the chance that he'll wake Lucifer up by drawing out energy in this way, but he has no other viable options.

Heat trickles into his wings from his chest, healing sparks moving along the path of his circulatory system, lighting up the dark like fireflies. All demonic magic is fire—but Lucifer's tends to burn cold. The sparks turn white, and Castiel feels something like brain freeze as the sparks move into his head. He loses time—an instant, a minute, he's not sure how long—and when he blinks again everything hurts, as if he's been encased in lead.

The sparks are still moving, and his spine arches, bones trembling from cold. Something sharp travels up and down the length of his back, and he bites down more firmly on the file, beak leaving indentations. All at once, the sparks die out, and Castiel relaxes into the floor, spitting out the file with an expression of disgust. He gets up slowly, inspecting himself for visible injuries.

The gash from shoulder to chest is still there, but knitted enough; it's no longer bleeding. His feathers are no longer matted with blood, and breathing is easier. He looks down at his feet and sees that he's no longer dripping blood. The sparks that had healed his body are now zooming along the floor, searching for evidence of more blood; the light absorbs all of it, sponge-like, before disappearing with a slight pop.

Castiel takes a deep and painful breath and gathers Dean up with his good wing, determined to get him to a bed, at least, before he collapses. Even his own healing magic takes a lot out of him; Lucifer's makes him feel entirely numb.

As he drags Dean down the hall, he remembers the first time he'd tried to die. Lucifer had brought him back in just this way, and Castiel had spent weeks in near paralysis, watching as Lucifer plotted with lesser demons to escape.

He's weak, he realizes. Too weak for this. Each step down the hall is agony. He pauses and looks behind him, verifying that the lights have erased all of his blood. There can't be any evidence of him being here—nothing for Dean to find; nothing for Dean to pick up and extrapolate and guess. His safety now lies in ignorance.

Castiel gets Dean to the ragged mattress in the main room and drops him, none too gracefully; he collapses next to him, panting. His chest wound is sweating around the edges, though the scabs haven't broken. He uses his good wing to arrange Dean in something like a sleeping pose and draw a blanket up to his chin. Then he sits, breathes, and moves toward the fire.

Fortunately for him, it is not quite dead; he stokes it with an iron poker that burns his wing. The sting of that is slight compared to his other injuries, and he's grateful for the warmth. The fire rebuilt, Castiel gains his feet shakily.

He should go back to his hidden room now. Mary had told him not to dream drop, and he doesn't intend to.

The longer Dean stays asleep, though, the greater the temptation becomes.

Mary had told him that Dean wouldn't remember the attack. How could he know that was true? Without quite choosing to, Castiel places one tentative feather on Dean's forehead. He closes his eyes, and he's in the dream.

This is stupid.

But he's already done it, so he might as well stay a while.

He blinks a few times, adjusting to the low light of the dream, and realizes he's still in his house. It's quiet, and the fire in the hearth in front of him is burned to embers, two glowing coals like demonic eyes. A few frames line the wall, and there are bookshelves set back a few feet from the fire, in the corners of the room, as well as a chair that looks sinfully comfortable.

Though the setting is familiar enough to cause an ache within him like a bruise, there are several details he doesn't remember. The painting above the fireplace is of a woman with a severe haircut and prim features; he gasps as he recognizes his mother.

He's tempted to take the painting and burn it. Then he remembers why he'd placed it there. He hadn't wanted his past to have any control over him. None whatsoever. His frequent sightings of his mother had served to test this. He had studied Stoicism for years in an attempt to forget what she'd done to him.

Castiel's wings twitch down his back and neck, where the scars are. A light tendril-like touch flits across the back of his neck. Even through his plumage, he can feel the largest scar.

He's distracted from his mother's hateful eyes by the sound of voices down the hall. He's grateful, briefly, for his ability to move around this house unnoticed; he makes his way down the hallway slowly, listening for any change in how the voices rise and fall. He may be dream dropping, but he doesn't want to reveal himself. He just wants to verify that Dean doesn't remember him. That's all he's here for.

He pauses outside the door of his study and stands stock-still and silent in the open doorway. The voices reach him clearly, and he can see inside the room easily. Again familiarity moves along his nerves like a static shock; he'd forgotten the contents of half the paintings he sees, and he doesn't remember a rug being here.

This is wrong, he realizes. It's obviously another of the vivid, lucid dreams that he'd had on Dean's first full night here: like the dream about the fire. But the fire isn't in this dream, even though it's in his house. He hadn't been able to figure it out before, because he hadn't been able to establish a pattern, but now he thinks that he—and Dean—may have gotten drawn in to Mary's memory. Mary clearly recalls more of the past than Castiel. As a spirit, she's concerned with the past; spirits always are, and they're usually fixated on how they died.

Castiel angles his face in the door to see into the corner where the voices are coming from. Castiel—his human self, not his current self—is sitting with Dean near the fire. Dean's leaning against the wall, but he's not bleeding; Castiel's dream-self must have helped him—at least, that's how Mary must have rationalized matters. Castiel smells something cloying and sweet in the air, and remembers honey with a pang. He misses tending to his bees. He lacks the dexterity to do it now.

He lacks the dexterity for many things.

His other self and Dean are staring at a very familiar painting above the fire, and Castiel wants to look away. They're talking about Michael and Mary and things out of the long past, and he steps back, wings to the wall.

A scratching sensation starts at the back of Castiel's mind—intolerable neural itch—and he knows Lucifer is trying to take control again. Dean's waking up.

Through the door, Castiel hears his human voice—lighter than his own, freer from restriction—say, "I'm sorry, Dean. For—whatever I do."

"Don't sweat it," Dean answers. "We'll find some way out of this, for you. I promise."

Castiel wants to believe him. He wants to, but faith comes harder than it used to.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says to the empty hall. He blinks, pulling himself out of the dream by slow stages. Mary had been right: he should never have spied. "I'm sorry."

Something small and wet falls down his cheek and falls to the floor. He ignores it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up...the return of Jo! Finally! :)


	17. A Knife in the Dark

When Dean comes to on his lumpy straw mattress near a fire, he blinks several times to ensure he's not stuck in an endless dream loop. He tests his shoulder and finds it whole: the injury he vaguely remembers is gone. His legs are numb. He has to take a piss, yet is also urgently thirsty.

"Welcome back to the world," a low, female voice drawls. "Took you long enough."

And Dean clamps his eyes tightly shut, because for the life of him he could swear that it's Jo. If he opens his eyes, and it's not her—which seems likely—he might die of disappointment.

Jo smacks him over the head, removing all doubt as to her identity, and Dean's eyes snap open, arms coming up to protect his face.

"Sorry," Jo says. "Had to make sure you were up this time. I'm getting sick of waiting around."

Dean sits up. It's dark—the windows to his left and back admit no light—and the fire isn't built very high. Jo's hair glistens like gold in the low light, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's seen since his mother's portrait.

He has this thought even though Jo is—well, a bit torn up. Her face is covered with fine scratches, almost healed; her hair is matted in places, and he sees blood clinging to her neck and shoulders, dried on like mud. She smells like rust and dirt—familiar, given that she's a healer and horse tender like her mother. Her expression is calm and confident, but something in her eyes glistens like amber, and he can't tell if it's pain or defiance. He gets the feeling she's a lot more hurt than she's letting on. Settling himself on his elbows, he asks, "What happened to you?"

She smirks and blows a stray strand of hair off her face. "I assume you saw what happened to the wagons."

"Yeah," he said. Ellen's probably still looking for her. "When we couldn't find you, I assumed you'd gotten away." He frowns. "Why didn't you go back to Lawrence?"

She pulls away from him a little, and in the light of the flames Dean sees that she's more badly hurt than he'd originally seen. Her chest wound extends from her neck to her hip—and possibly further down; clothes cover it but the bandages don't seem to be doing much. Dean hopes they're old. If Jo is still bleeding this much, it's a wonder she's still alive

Jo doesn't answer for a while, and Dean doesn't pry. "Okay," Dean says. "I'm getting up. Then we're cleaning those and—" He wants to say they're going home, but if Jo is here, she may be trapped behind the fire barrier with him. And even if she's not, she may not make it, traveling in her condition. "And we'll figure it out."

Jo nods. "Water's on the table. Some food, too, though I wasn't sure where it came from. Is it safe?"

Dean nods. "I've eaten it. It's okay." When had he last eaten? He doesn't remember.

Jo moves toward the table. Dean gets up and stamps his feet, trying to return blood to his numb muscles. His shoulder twinges with remembered pain, but he sees no wound. How had he hurt it, again? It didn't matter. He shambles up, awkward, and goes outside to relieve himself. The early morning light is thin, and all is still; he wonders if he'll ever get used to this place being such a dead zone.

When he goes back inside, Jo is eating near the fire, knees to her chest as if protecting her injuries. She hands him a jagged piece of bread and an apple, which he accepts gratefully. He sits beside her in front of the fire in comfortable silence for a while. Jo glances at him sidelong and says, still with food in her mouth, "So, what is this place?"

Dean shrugs. "Dad found it when he went off-road on the way to Budejovice. Says he found a demon, although—" Dean shrugs again, trying to figure out if there is something wrong with his shoulder or if he's imagining it. "I haven't seen anything yet." He yawns. "I've heard it, a few times—I think." He frowns. The more he thinks about it, the more distressed he becomes at the lack of proof of an actual demon here. Where's the sulfur? Why doesn't the owner of the voice kill him or steal his soul? Why isn't everything dead? "It gives people things."

Jo's forehead creases. "What kind of things?"

"Well, it gave dad gold. But he pissed something off that wanted to kill him, so…"

"…so you came in his place to deal with whatever the hell it is." Jo sighs. "Still trying to save everyone." A pause. "What'll Sam do, with you gone?"

Dean rubs the stiff hairs at the back of his neck. "Sam'll be fine," he says. "He's grown, and probably married by now."

"To Ruby?"

"No, that new schoolteacher—up from Moravia."

"Jessica Moore?" Jo asks, mouth falling half-open. "You're kidding. I can't leave town for five minutes…" She mutters under her breath for a few moments.

Dean takes a huge bite of his apple, spreading little bits of fruit everywhere, and Jo frowns. Dean gets up, taking another bite, and says, "I'm going to get water to boil your bandages."

Jo gives him one of her patented I-don't-need-help-and-I-can-do-it-myself looks. Dean ignores it, even when she throws her bread at his foot.

There's a bucket near the trough in the stable that may be serviceable to gather the water in, though he's not entirely sure where to find something metal to boil it in. As he finds the bucket and walks down to the stream for fresh water, Dean thinks.

He thinks this whole situation is beyond strange. He knows he'd passed out sometime after trying to get the locked door open, but he doesn't remember exactly when. If the demon or monster is here, it's behind that door. He doesn’t understand why he hasn't seen it yet; even when he'd defied its order not to turn, he'd seen nothing. Jo's sudden appearance here is welcome, but it seems too convenient—though he supposes there aren't any safe havens for leagues in any direction.

Still. What if Jo is the demon?

Demons can take many shapes. One of the things Bobby had told him, long ago, was that demons were at their most threatening when they mimicked, or (worse) possessed, someone you loved. One such demon had possessed and killed Karen Singer—Bobby's wife; effectively Dean's aunt until he was six years old.

The theory that Jo is the demon makes at least as much sense as Jo appearing here suddenly. He's been waiting for it to appear—and it had, in a moment when he was vulnerable. Why it hadn't killed him in his sleep is harder to parse, but demons can be more complicated than other monsters. Some of them like to play with their food.

Or it could be Jo—really Jo—and he has an ally against whatever foe is out there.

Dean feels around his neck, breathing relief when he finds his rosary still there. If Jo's a demon, he can find out—easily.

Arriving at the stream, Dean fills his bucket to the brim. He places the rosary in the full bucket and murmurs a Latin prayer of blessing over the water. His pronunciation sounds awful even to his own ears, but the words feel right, and Bobby had told him that intent was worth more than diction in these matters. He turns back to the house, moving as fast as he can without spilling too much of the water.

Jo's at the door, waiting for him. He swings the bucket wide, spilling some water on her mostly bare leg. She doesn't react, and Dean breathes an entirely private sigh of relief.

***

Lazy streaks of sunlight cut through the clouds and enter the room, illuminating streaks of dust. Dean's busy stitching up one of Jo's deep leg gashes. The ankle doesn't look so hot either—melons come to mind—and she'd refused to let him touch it. "You're a butcher," she'd spat, and he remembers using similar words on her after she'd patched him up when one of Gordon's bulls gored his shoulder in a fit of rage.

He's spent most of the morning cleaning her wounds. The one across her chest had come first, and that had also required stitching: a lot of it. The edges of the wound are suppurated, like a long jagged scar cut in two, and it had taken him the better part of an hour to get the stitches neat and clean.

They'd never really gotten around to finishing breakfast. Dean had done some hunting in the adjoining room, with the angel pictures, and had come up with a half-rusted pot. By putting the bucket inside (and praying the corroded metal wouldn't crumble), Dean had managed to boil a small quantity of water; this he'd used to clean the wounds. He'd gone back and forth to the stream several times—sometimes for water to boil, but more often for water to drink.

Jo's now sitting in his shirt—which is fortunately big enough to be almost a nightdress for her—and staring at her soiled clothes with an expression of contempt.

He doesn't know how Jo could still be alive. He doesn't know if she'll live through this.

And she's acting like nothing is wrong, because that's what Jo does.

Dean ties off the thread binding the leg wound closed and looks up at the table. The half-eaten food is there, forgotten. He gets up and brings the plate over to Jo on the mattress. "Eat."

"Not hungry."

"Doesn't matter. You need it." He holds the half-loaf of bread out to her, and she takes it, but she doesn't eat it immediately. She stares at the fire. Dean grabs a handful of nuts that look like almonds, but taste more bitter, and settles himself next to Jo.

Jo takes a cautious bite of the bread and coughs. "What d'you think? Think I'll make it?"

Dean's tempted to make a wisecrack, but now isn't the time. "If anyone could, it's you." That's true, if a trifle sappy, and Jo punches him on the shoulder. The blow has no weight to it, and that more than anything makes Dean worry. Jo is strong, and not just for a woman.

Jo swallows bread dejectedly and fixes Dean with a haunted stare, her hand moving up to his shoulder to make him look at her. "The demon your dad mentioned…"

Dean prompts, "Yeah?"

"I think I've seen it." She gestures to her pile of bloody, filthy clothes. "Some kind of monster did this. I don't know what, but 'demon' seems as good a guess as any."

Dean closes his eyes, opens them, fixes his eyes back on Jo. "How did you get away?"

"I'm not sure," Jo says. "It's almost like it—let me go. I was in the trees, and it came up behind me and cut me open. Then it—I don't know—just stopped? Like it recognized me. I fell—banged my ankle up pretty bad." She grimaces; her leg twitches, and Dean notices the swelling there seems to be getting worse. "And then it just left me there, like it forgot." She takes a deep breath. "But before that, it burned the wagons. I saw it."

Dean shifts incrementally closer to her. "What did you see?"

She closes her eyes and breathes. "Ravens. Lots of ravens. I've seen them, still. They live here, but I don't think they're the problem. I think they were trying to warn us." She shakes her head, and her eyes open, though she keeps her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. "Crowley came across that hedge out front. He and his men hacked at it—trying to break it down. Then almost everyone collapsed from some kind of poison—" Her eyes widen. "Did Dick make it back okay?"

"He made it back," Dean reassures. "Your mom's taking care of him. And we sent out searchers, of course—I was one—but we didn't find anyone except Crowley."

"Crowley lived through that?"

"Seems so," Dean says. "He was burned so bad he was damn near unrecognizable, but your mom seemed to think he'd pull through."

Jo snorts. "That—is a shame." She traces one long finger along the top of her chest wound idly, as if trying to test how much it would actually hurt. "Anyway, I passed out after I fell, but it didn't come after me. I came to—not sure how long after. Found my pack, which is good." She stretches out a bit and sighs. "Patched myself up as best I could. Wandered for a while—" She looks away from him, unable to meet his eyes. "I wound up going through one of the gaps in the hedge. When I tried to get out, it—" She shrugged. "It lit on fire."

Dean nods understanding. "The same thing happened to me. Looks like you're stuck with me."

Jo yawns. "Well," she says, "I can think of worse fates. Though not many." Her smile is a weak thing, but it makes Dean feel a lot better.

Dean changes the subject; they talk about the town for a while, and Jo settles both legs on Dean's lap as they sit on the low straw mattress. It's warm and it's comfortable, and as Dean details Sam's wedding plans, he thinks that he might, at some point, have come to some kind of arrangement with Jo—if they hadn't been raised together. If she wasn't essentially his kid sister. Her breasts and thighs had been on full display as he'd stitched her up, and while the circumstances had emphatically not been appropriate for ogling, he'd treated her wounds and body with the same care he would have Sam's. There's no sexual attraction there.

After a while, Jo's voice softens and slows; her eyelids droop, and she falls asleep in the middle of a story about stealing one of her father's knives. Dean extricates himself carefully and leaves Jo to sleep by the fire. Grabbing the bucket, he decides to go down to the stream for more water; it'll save him a trip in the morning, and he feels like he needs the air.

Jo's story confirmed that they were trapped here. Though he had known that before, the confirmation makes something feel hollow in his chest, as if he's lost something precious. Well, he has. He'll never see Sam again. Or Bobby, or Ellen, or hell, even Adam. Even Kate.

He's missing Kate. There must be something seriously wrong with him.

It's not Lawrence he misses—or any of it people (Sam aside). It's the idea of being able to go home, and from there, start a new life somewhere else. It would be like starting a new game of chess after getting one move away from checkmate—infuriating, unfair—but it would be an option and a way out. It would be freedom.

And now he and Jo are stuck…here. Wherever _here_ is. In the back-asswards boonies of the Black Forest, where help can't come because magic fire is the most effective fencing around.

He fills the bucket at the stream, tugs it up, and feels something sharp pull in his shoulder. He switches the bucket to the other hand, cursing, and makes the uphill climb back to the house. His thighs ache, too, as if he's been running all day. Well, he has, in a sense.

He sights the ivy wall in the distance and slows for a break; he doesn't want Jo worried about him when he comes back inside, and he wants to leave her undisturbed to sleep for as long as possible. He stretches his sore fingers out and in, breathing. Then a twig snaps, and Dean holds absolutely still.

"Dean," a deep voice says out of the dark. "Don't turn around."

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. His eyes flick in all directions, and he glances over his shoulder, but he doesn't move—not because he doesn't want to; he's just too fucking tired. "What the hell?" Dean says. This is unexpected. Jo's arrival had been unexpected. He reminds himself that Jo is not the demon, and that the voice he's hearing is one he's heard before. "Where are you?"

"I told you not to turn." The voice sounds oddly miffed.

Dean rolls his eyes, but his back tenses with anticipation. Something—someone?—unknown is nearby, talking to him. Issuing commands. Slowly, Dean turns in a circle around himself, attempting to identify the source of the voice. He can't see them, and he hates it. "Fine," he grits out. "Let's say I indulge you for the moment." As if he has a choice. " _What_ are you?"

 "I can't tell you."

"How do you know my name?"

"You talk in your sleep. I guessed."

Great, a creepy stalker monster. "Are you the thing that attacked Jo?"

"Yes," the voice answers without hesitation. "That's why I'm here. Dean, you have to get her to leave. It's important."

Dean nods slowly, but he doesn't really understand. Jo can't leave; it's impossible. The fire won't let her pass. She'd already tried. "Okay. Why?"

The voice sighs and is silent for a long moment. "You came here because your father told you there was a demon."

"And you're the demon?"

"No. But it possesses me, at times. I've asked it to spare you, and in return, it asked for the life of the next person that sees us."

"And that's Jo," Dean breathes. Jo had seen—whatever this thing was—on her way in, and she had warned him.

He's stupid to be here alone. He should have called for her already. But this thing knows his name—and it hasn't attacked him, yet. He's unwilling to drag Jo into danger without cause; she can barely walk right now. "Jo's hurt," Dean says, his voice taking on an edge he recognizes from when his father would use his military voice. He winces at his own tone. "She needs rest. And even if she didn't, there's no way out of here through the fire."

"I will make a way," the voice says without hesitation. "I can give you a day."

Dean rubs one hand over his eyes and shakes his head. "No."

"Then I will have to kill her."

"I understand," Dean says, "what you're saying, but honestly? I'm getting sick of playing hide-and-seek with you. If this is what draws you out, then so be it."

There is a long pause, and Dean thinks he's alone again, maybe. He picks up his bucket and takes a few steps toward the house.

"I will see you tomorrow, Dean," the voice says. To Dean's surprise, there's not any threat in it.

Tomorrow.

Dean turns around one more time, searching the dark, seeing nothing. He hears Jo's soft snoring inside and grits his teeth. He'll be ready.


	18. Angel

One bucket of water, as it turns out, is not nearly enough for two full-grown people. Dean shoves the bucket toward Jo when he wakes up, and she grumbles sleepily, drinks it all down, and looks at him expectantly for more. He picks up the bucket, shuffles outside and shields his eyes against the sun. He nearly steps on two of his sprouted grain seeds and makes a conscious effort to go around. The seedlings remind him of his sack of grain from one of the outbuildings. 

He's glad of that food source. Since Jo's arrival, there had been no food set out for them, and while he'd seen a few blackberries in the thicket near the fire fence, he hadn't discovered much else that was edible. Animals avoid this place, for obvious reasons.

Dean takes the by now familiar trek to the stream. As the bucket fills, his stomach growls. He cups some water in his free hand and swallows. It's not the same as food, but it will stop the noises for a little while. 

The bucket is nearly full when he hears something overhead. He looks up and sees a raven perched in the tree directly opposite him, on the other side of the stream. "Don't turn around," Dean hears, and he nearly loses his grip on the bucket's handle.

"Jesus. Can't you show up without scaring the crap out of me?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean sets the bucket level in the water. "I mean, this 'don't turn around' thing is rude. Can't you introduce yourself like a normal person?"

A pause. "Hello, Dean."

"That wasn't so hard," Dean mutters. "I suppose you still don't have a name."

"Not one I can give you." 

Dean takes the now-full bucket out of the stream. "Okay. Who are you, then?" He's going to keep asking even though the thing's answers are infuriating.

Instead of its usual denials, the voice turns the question back at him. "Who are you, Dean?"

"Well, I'm Dean," he says. "Obviously."

"That tells me nothing of who you are."

True enough. "And if I tell you something about myself, you'll tell me something about you?"

Hesitation. "I promise nothing. The possibility exists."

"Fine." Dean chews on his upper lip and watches water trickle through the tiny hole in his bucket. No wonder he'd had to make so many blasted trips. He'll have to dig for pitch. The places near the river are a swamp at this time of year; he might find some. "I'm from Lawrence," he says, pointing toward the stone road. "A few leagues from here. I hunt, and I grow things, and I sell pelts and herbs. At least, that's what I used to do—before." He looks up, though he doesn't honestly expect to see anything. "What did you do?"

"I was a painter."

Dean immediately recalls the scrawled angels on the wall. "Did you make the angels?"

A sound like a huff—a laugh? "You saw those, did you? Yes, I made them. Long ago. I don't draw angels anymore." The voice gets louder as it speaks—which means the speaker is getting closer.

"What do you do now?" Dean asks, standing up and dipping his bucket one more time. This thing is perfectly capable of following him back to the house—likely without making itself seen. He wonders if it has the power of invisibility or just has mastered stealth.

"I live here, alone. Like you, I hunt. I have a garden. I try to stay out of people's way. Sometimes, though, they visit, and the demon doesn't like that."

They're circling around to the voice's promise to kill Jo today, though they both seem reluctant to mention it outright. "Do you enjoy it—killing people? Hosting demons?"

"Of course not." Another huff, offended this time. "I have limited choices."

"Why?"

"If I explained, you might try to guess the demon's name."

Dean's a little curious now. "What happens if I do?"

"You will summon it, and I will not be able to prevent it from killing you."

"You seem awfully certain you can kill me," Dean says, letting a little swagger seep into his voice. "Did you miss the part about me being a hunter? I don't just kill deer and bear for sport. I've hunted more monsters and spirits than I can count." He pauses to let that sink in. "What makes you think I couldn't take you, easy?"

"You seem to think you're the first hunter I've met." There is a flutter of wings; Dean looks up and sees that the raven is agitated. Probably because it's looking right at the demon stalking him. Experimentally, Dean looks up, into the sparse tree canopy. He doesn't really expect to see anything, but Jo had said the ravens tried to warn people.

"Touché." Dean scrambles to his feet, bucket in hand, and turns back toward the house. "You gonna leave me alone today, or are you gonna come out and kill me?"

"I have no intention of killing you." 

The light stress on the last word makes Dean shiver. "Okay, I'll rephrase that. Are you gonna leave me alone today, or do you plan to follow me around like a creepy stalker?"

There is no reply. Dean's almost relieved. He would be, except his hearings—not-exactly-sightings?—of this demonic creature are becoming more frequent, and more confusing. He would vastly prefer it if the monster would attack him, because at least he knows how to deal with that. 

Dean hoofs it back to the house. Jo is up and building the fire. She glares at him as light from outside gets in her eyes. "What took you so long?"

"Long story," he says, setting the bucket next to her. He glances at the table where food has magically appeared before, and sees nothing. "I have some grain," he says. "We could grind it up and make bread."

"You can, you mean," Jo says, indicating her ruined shoulder. "I can—I don't know—gather berries, or something?"

Dean shakes his head firmly; he doesn't want her wandering where he can't see. Jo folds her arms across her chest. "Why did it take you so long to get back, Dean?"

"I told you, it's a long story—"

"You didn't seem that concerned about leaving me alone before you got back. What happened?"

That's true, and even Dean doesn't entirely know what to make of that. He knows he hasn't been attacked inside the house. Of the three separate occasions he's heard this thing, two of them have taken place outside—and his first conversation, inside, had been more confusing than threatening. The house seems like a safe haven. He has no objective proof to base that on, except that he usually stays in the house and it still alive. The potentially fatal trappings of his imprisonment—the thorn hedge, the magic fire—are all outside. 

"I ran in to the demon," Dean says. 

"What?"

"Well—it talked to me." He pauses. "Said it was going to kill you tonight."

Jo snorts. "Well, it already tried once, and you can see how that worked out."

Dean smiles, but it's an anemic thing. Jo's not dead—yet—but the monster had taken her right to the edge. "How about I grind up flour while you make some snares?"

Jo's eyes light up. "Snares? What are we catching?"

"Not game, unfortunately," Dean says. "I haven't seen as much as a rabbit around here. But I think the demon was in the trees. If we can set a trap and pin its wings—"

"—we'll have an advantage," Jo says, nodding firmly. "Got any rope?"

Dean does have some rope in his bag, and he's hoping it's enough. He rummages in the corner, searching through his bag of mixed-up supplies, and pulls out two coils of rope roughly thirty feet in length. They're woven of three strands and not two, for extra strength, and though the texture is abrasive Dean holds a coil in each hand gratefully. "We should have enough."

Jo takes the rope from his hands and pulls his knife from his belt. He gives her a look. "Sorry, were you using that?" she asks with an expression of artlessness that doesn't fool him at all. 

Dean mutters nonsense under his breath, but he's smiling. While Jo sets to work, Dean retrieves his sack of bleached grain and goes searching for something to grind with.

***

Grinding flour is harder work than Dean had anticipated. Finding the right tools—or at least, the first iteration of the right tools—had taken near on an hour. He'd found a stone for grinding easily enough: it had a wide base and a slightly pointed edge, suitable for breaking through the tough skin on the wheat berries. Finding a stone to grind flour in proves the harder challenge; he has to return to the streambed again to find stones with the right kind of indentation.

He doesn't like the stream; not anymore. He knows the demon can hide there and watch him without being seen, and that makes him uneasy; doubly so because he no longer has his knife. But he has no encounters with the demon at the stream, and when he returns to the main house with his materials he feels a little proud of himself.

Then he starts grinding, moving whole kernels into the shallow indentation in his larger rock and slamming the smaller, sharper stone into them as hard as he can.

Jo snorts at him over her snares. "You won't last fifteen minutes that way." 

Dean doesn't look up, but keeps doing what he's doing. He compresses the grains into something that looks good—like flour, anyway—but, to his dismay, the more he grinds, the smaller the pile seems to become. Worse, his shoulder already hurts from making that one solitary pile.

He also realizes he doesn't have anything to put the flour in—and no way to bake bread.

Jo takes pity on his confusion. "I think the pot will work to boil it in," Jo says. "Gruel, not bread. Better than nothing."

Dean nods and retrieves the rusted pot. He takes it to the stream to clear off the worst of the rust off, and once again sees no sign of the demon at all. He and Jo make a miserable meal of the gruel, but he's not leaving her to gather more food. Not today.

Jo also makes fairly quick work of the snares; out of two ropes, she manages to make five thin nets, two of which are wide enough to capture something twice the size of a man. The other three are smaller—intended to snare a limb and not a whole monster.

"The three little ones should go by the stream where it was," she says. "Pick places near rocks—good hiding places; anywhere it can stay out of sight from you. The others should go in the trees at the same place."

Dean tests the strength of one of the larger nets between his palms. "Are you thinking I should draw it out?"

"It's the only place you've seen it, right?"

"Heard it," he corrects. "And…no." He had heard the monster, whatever it was, moving inside the house once. But he and Jo have been in the house all day, and Jo hadn't heard anything come in while he'd been outside getting water. It stands to reason that the demon is still outside. "But I haven't heard it outside anywhere else."

Jo nods firmly. "I'll come with you and set up the nets on the ground."

***

The ground snares blend in surprisingly well with the early autumn undergrowth; the brown of the rope looks a lot like wheat from a short distance away. The ones in the trees, though more difficult to place, are also invisible from the ground, though Dean supposes a flying creature would have better visibility from above. 

When they're done, Dean and Jo plop by the stream and drink. "Do you really think they'll work?"

"I don't know," Jo answers curtly. "I haven't tried them yet, obviously." She looks up and bites her lip, pouting. Jo loves to climb, and he knows she's disappointed that he'd been the one to set the tree snares. Her wounds are hell on her, and Dean's kind of surprised she hasn't complained more about them.

Dean hears her stomach growl. She hugs herself and drinks more water. 

"There's still more gruel back at the house," Dean says. "I'll get it. Yell if—well." Jo nods and flashes the knife she's tucked into her belt.

Dean returns to the house. His footprints are starting to erode a path. He rummages in front of the fire, gripping the still-warm and partly rusted pan with the thin layer of gruel on the bottom gingerly. He's standing, lifting the pan, when he hears the voice again.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean nearly drops the pan. "Stop—doing—that."

"Sorry."

He doesn't sound it, and Dean snorts. "What do you want? It isn't tonight yet."

"No. I did not intend to meet you yet. You asked me to try to appear without frightening you."

"Awfully considerate." Dean adjusts his grip on the pan and stands upright fully. "Again, what do you want?"

"I want you to understand that I don't want to harm you. Or your friend. It's beyond my control."

"Likely story." Dean heads for the door, pan in hand; this thing, whatever it is, has never tried following him before, and he thinks he'll test his luck. 

He's opening the door clumsy and one-handed. He misses his footing and nearly drops the pot; he catches himself on his front leg, but when he pushes himself up, his wrist brushes against something raised on the doorframe. He pauses, looks, and sees a dusty crevice in the wood a little below the height of his eyes. He blows on the spot, and sees a crude stick figure with wings carved into the wood. 

Another angel. He isn't surprised he hadn't seen it before; the carving is so full of dust that only the impact of something like his fall could have dislodged it.

He stares at it for longer than is probably necessary. He swallows. "Why did you draw angels?"

The silence stretches, and Dean steadies the pan in his hands to prepare for walking. He's outside and walking away when he hears, a little faintly, "I guess because I always tried to see the good in people."

Dean's pace slows, and he turns back to face the house. "Why did you stop?"

"Why did you stop growing flowers?" 

The voice emerges from the cavernous space of the open door, like a dragon's coming from a cave, and Dean shivers. He reflects back on his conversations with this thing, trying to figure out if he'd ever let slip that he was a gardener. He didn't think he had, but he also doesn't want the demon to know he's been caught off-balance again. "I asked you first."

"Yes, you did," the voice replies in a mild tone. "And I answered you."

Dean turns back toward the stream. "Don't kill Jo and I'll give you an answer." He trudges determinedly back to the stream. Behind him, the voice says nothing.

***

By sundown, Dean and Jo are back inside with the fire lit. Dean wants something to bar or lock the door, but it's not as if there's anything handy for that purpose. He had cut—with great effort—a long, thick tree branch to use as a bar, but he hadn't been able to find material suitable for hooks. 

As he and Jo sit in front of the fire and consume another miserable meal of gruel, Dean uses his silver knife to smooth the edges of the branch. If he can't have a bar for the door, he'll have a staff. Staves are weapons. Not the greatest in the world, but beggars can't be choosers.

It's near dark before Dean's panic starts peeking from out of the corners of his eyes. It's night, and the demon had promised to appear. His staff is done—at least, as done as it's likely to get—and Jo is looking stronger than she had the previous day, but he doesn't think they're ready. Not by a long shot.

As the last light of the sun disappears, a crack of thunder sounds close, and rain comes down in a deluge that rattles what remains of the window.

"Glad we're inside," Jo says.

"Yeah," Dean says.

A sickening crack like splintering wood sounds from the left, and Dean is blinded by a flash of light. A heartbeat later, the glass covering the window shatters, and rain slaps Dean in the face with the force of a blow. He turns toward the interior door, searching for a way to get further into the house, but before he can move there's a sound like a ship listing to the side in a gale, and another sickening crack.

It's not thunder. That's a tree coming down.

Dean hears it before he sees it, and his feet, wiser than his brain, make him step out of its path. He reaches out wildly for Jo; she grabs his hand and keeps up with him as he runs outside, out of the path of the tree.

"So much for shelter," Jo grumbles. She is still holding Dean's hand.

"Don't count me out yet," Dean says. He shields his eyes against the rain and moves them as fast as he can toward the stable; with any luck, that building hasn't been collapsed in by a fucking tree. 

He can just see the stable through the fog when Jo's hand slips out of his. "I saw it!" she yells. "Follow me!"

Dean pauses for a moment, stunned, then starts running in the direction of her voice. "Jo!" he yells. "Jo!"

Silence. Nothing.

The fog is getting thicker, clouds spreading darkness overhead, like a curtain drawn against all light. Dean's pace falters as the mud runs, slippery; he falls flat and gets to his feet hurriedly. There is still no sign of Jo.

Dean plants his feet carefully, moving, calling for Jo, until the iron gate he'd entered in from looms large before his face. He steps forward, but despite the rain, the fire barrier holds. Flames lick the metal as if they want to devour it.

That's it. Dean's finding some way around the gate and the hedge. There has to be a way out of here. Dean sprints around the perimeter of the house, all along the hedge, for almost half a mile, using his staff to keep his balance in the mud. He turns when the treeline becomes too thick to run through, and continues running, red-faced and terrified, long after the point when he wants to collapse in exhaustion. 

There's a gap in the trees a few hundred yards from the corner where Dean had turned. He pivots on his staff and cuts into the open space, still running, when he hears, "Stop!" yelled in a voice of command. A voice he recognizes, and hates.

Hated or not, he hadn't expected to hear the voice, and in his surprise, he skids to a halt. In front of him, he hears the snick of blades coming together and looks down.

Two inches from his foot, a rusted bear trap has closed around a branch. He must have kicked it into the trap, setting it off. A few feet away from the sprung trap, Dean sees another one behind a rock. And another, next to a tree in the middle distance.

There are bear traps everywhere.

Dean takes a step back—gingerly, resting his makeshift walking stick on every place he steps—and breathes shakily. If the voice had not warned him, he would have stepped in the trap. He doesn't know where Jo is, and she's hurt. He might have been stuck here until he died. "Why--?" he chokes out, still out of breath from his long run. 

"I told you. I have no wish to harm you."

Dean takes another careful step backward, gingerly moving along the perimeter of the field of rusted metal teeth. "Where is Jo?"

The hesitance on the part of the voice is becoming horrifyingly familiar. He asks again, more forcefully, "Where is Jo, God dammit?"

"I—made a way for her."

"Did you kill her?" Dean asks. He stumbles into a tree and clings to it, putting his back to it, using its solidity to calm himself down.

"No." No hesitation. The demon sounds sure. But demons lie.

"So she made it past the fence?" Dean asks. "Back to Lawrence?"

Another long pause. "I'm sorry, Dean," the voice says. "I don't know."

Dean takes a long breath. It's not as good as a promise that he hadn't killed her indirectly, but it also leaves open the possibility that she's alive. That she got away.

Dean's relief is accompanied by a burrowing unease. He hadn't seen Jo cross the barrier. He hasn't seen her since she'd run after the monster. He lays his head in his free hand and says, "You don't know anything."

No response. Dean sits in the dark with his back to the tree and feels more alone than ever.


	19. Storm

When Lucifer had chosen Jo instead of Mary as a sacrifice, Castiel had not been surprised. After all, Jo had seen him first—before the spirit's arrival—and Lucifer had thought her dead. Castiel's small victory, won by leaving her alive, is insulting to Lucifer's pride.

He knows that Lucifer doesn't like Mary, either. Or Dean. He knows that eventually Lucifer will kill them all.

And he has to prevent that. Somehow.

It's a rotten way to spend an eternity.

Jo's appearance disquiets Castiel. She must have been living inside the wall of fire all this time, though neither Lucifer nor Castiel had been aware of her presence here. Castiel knows she'd been badly injured; it's possible she hadn't moved enough to gain their attention, especially given their other guests—Mary, and Dean.

When Castiel had noticed the woman entering the house a little before sundown, he hadn't known what to think. Lucifer had recognized her before he had—after all, he'd been the one that had gored her and left her for dead—and had insisted on Castiel killing her as part of their deal.

_That one's mine_ , Lucifer had insisted, tone dripping venom. _No survivors. She's seen us._

Castiel nods but makes no move to go inside. "Tomorrow night," he says. "I'll do it tomorrow night."

_Heh,_ Lucifer chuckles. _Why not now?_

"Dean is hurt," Castiel says. He'd been healed, but there could be residual effects. "She might help."

Lucifer huffs, but capitulates. Seconds before sunset, Castiel flies to the roof and shimmies into one of the chimneys—enlarged specifically for his passage—that leads him directly to his room behind the locked door. To his surprise, Lucifer doesn't stop him.

_Not hunting tonight?_ he asks Lucifer as his consciousness shifts.

"Not hungry," Lucifer says, sounding for all the world like a spoiled child deprived of a favorite toy. Castiel expects Lucifer to do what he usually does when they're inside—spy on the outside world. But he sits before a witch bowl instead, speaking to one of his servants in a guttural language Castiel thinks is Enochian. The voice on the other end is young, male, and almost recognizable. He knows Lucifer isn't speaking to Crowley—the accent would give that away. It's someone else. Castiel listens carefully, but they're speaking in code; he thinks they're talking about dropoff locations for an artifact—a sword? A weapon?

When Lucifer completes his call, he tips the witch bowl over, spreading a thin layer of blood over the soiled floor. He stretches, yawns, and climbs the chimney again, and Castiel thinks that he's decided to go hunting after all.

He's wrong. Lucifer flies to the very edge of the barrier that confines them and climbs a tree. Through his eyes, Castiel sees the lights of Lawrence in the distance. Lucifer takes in the view for a few moments, then climbs down the tree. He rips one claw through the tree's trunk; resin bubbles from the wound, and Lucifer coats his talons in it, getting parts of his wings sticky. He goes home on foot, sap drying on his wings. Castiel grimaces internally; that's going to be irritating to deal with come morning.

Lucifer scales the outer wall of the house silently and drops through the chimney. Dust sticks to the sap, making Lucifer's wings twitch. Then he begins puttering about their shared space, gathering supplies delicately with the edge of his cleaner wing.

Lucifer intends to cast a spell. Castiel doesn't recognize all of the ingredients—some are herbs; some are ground materials that remind him of bone and dried flesh. The witch bowl and Lucifer's long sharp iron knife are cast haphazardly on the altar, meaning a blood sacrifice will be necessary. Castiel takes in as much as he can through Lucifer's eyes. He realizes, sharply, that the wings are coated because Lucifer is going to cut them. He hates witchcraft. Even Michael's tamer version had made him uncomfortable.

A square of cloth joins the knife and bowl on the altar: the container for a hex bag. Lucifer combines his dry ingredients inside the cloth and picks up the knife. He slices into the flesh of his wing, grinning ferally. Castiel feels the sting as the knife pushes deeper.

Lucifer mixes the ingredients for the spell with his free wing, humming all the while.

*** 

Castiel has no intention of running into Dean the next morning. The second the sun breaks over the horizon, he wrests all control away from Lucifer and lugs himself to the stream for a bath. The cold water makes the resin harden, sticky, and he spends a long frustrated half-hour trying to get himself clean.

Fortunately Dean's boots are loud, and he's able to run up the nearest tree long before he's visible. Dean fills an old bucket in the stream. Castiel hears a rustle of wings and is faced with one of the forest's ravens. It perches directly across from him in an ash, trilling in a way that might be pretty if its species were different.

Castiel likes the ravens. They often try to dissuade travelers away from the manor house. He appreciates them, even though he doesn't really understand why they do it.

Dean sees the raven; Castiel notices the tightening of his shoulders. He looks up and around, and his eyes flit toward the tree where Castiel is hidden.

"Don't turn around," Castiel says, instinctively protective. His position and the water amplify his voice.

Dean swings his bucket in a wide arc, water spilling over the rim. "Jesus," Dean breathes, "Can't you show up without scaring the crap out of me?"

Castiel is tempted to remain silent now that the immediate threat of discovery is past. Dean's reaction, though, warrants some kind of a response. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, this 'don't turn around' thing is rude," Dean says in a petulant tone. He turns back to the stream, filling the bucket all the way full again after the spill. "Can't you introduce yourself like a normal person?"

A normal person? Surely Dean doesn't think he's even a person, never mind normal. But though he is not a person, he often feels like one, and Dean is treating him like one. Tentatively, he offers, "Hello, Dean."

Dean mutters something unintelligible. "I suppose you still don't have a name."

"Not one I can give you."             

Dean takes the bucket out of the stream. "Okay. Who are you, then?"

Though Castiel can never answer this question, he's getting tired of providing the same response. Instead of answering, he decides to flip the question around. "Who are you, Dean?"

"Well, I'm Dean," he says without hesitation, his forehead creasing in a little frown. "Obviously."

"That tells me nothing of who you are."

Dean's mouth draws upward in something like a smirk. "And if I tell you something about myself, you'll tell me something about you?"

Maybe. Castiel is forbidden to tell his name, but other information could be shared. "I promise nothing. The possibility exists."

"Fine," Dean says. "I'm from Lawrence, a few leagues from here. I hunt, and I grow things, and I sell pelts and herbs. At least, that's what I used to do—before." He looks up, far to the north of Castiel's hiding place. "What did you do?"

Castiel considers the question for a moment before deciding there is no harm in answering. "I was a painter."

"Did you make the angels?"

The angels. Castiel had nearly forgotten his last half-mad scribbles in the house before the demon had taken his hand. Castiel chuckles briefly, and is alarmed of how much the sound reminds him of Lucifer. Castiel crawls down the tree stealthily, while Dean is looking away from him. He needs to plan his escape. "You saw those, did you? Yes, I made them. Long ago. I don't draw angels anymore."

"What do you do now?" Dean asks. He sets the bucket back in the stream for some reason.               

Once again, Castiel takes the time to consider. He thinks he knows where Dean's line of questioning is leading, but he doesn't want to answer questions about Jo. He chooses to answer truthfully, but keeps his response cagey. "I live here, alone," he says. Aside from Lucifer, but he's hardly company. "Like you, I hunt. I have a garden. I try to stay out of people's way. Sometimes, though, they visit, and the demon doesn't like that."

"Do you enjoy it—killing people? Hosting demons?"

"Of course not," Castiel bites out. "I have limited choices."

"Why?"

"If I explained, you might try to guess the demon's name."

"What happens if I do?"

"You will summon it, and I will not be able to prevent it from killing you." Honesty is becoming addictive. Surprisingly, he enjoys talking to Dean. He had enjoyed talking to Mary, too, as depressing as their conversation had been. Perhaps his long loneliness is catching up to him. Or maybe he's getting weak in his old age.

"You seem awfully certain you can kill me," Dean says, getting up with the bucket in his hand. "Did you miss the part about me being a hunter? I don't just kill deer and bear for sport. I've hunted more monsters and spirits than I can count. What makes you think I couldn't take you, easy?"

Castiel is once again tempted to laugh, but he doesn't. The feeling is too much like possession by Lucifer. He can't let the threat pass, however—if only because Castiel is dangerous, no matter who or what is controlling his movements. "You seem to think you're the first hunter I've met."

Abruptly, the raven across the stream spreads its wings and caws angrily. It's looking Castiel in the eyes now, and while it makes no move to attack, Castiel is sure it wants to.

"Touché." Dean turns back toward the house. "You gonna leave me alone today, or are you gonna come out and kill me?" he asks.

"I have no intention of killing you." He doesn't intent to kill anyone. Things just—happen that way, sometimes.

Dean takes one step toward the house, then stops, but he doesn't turn. He's facing away—giving Castiel a perfect opportunity to escape. "Okay, I'll rephrase that," Dean says, his voice slightly muffled. "Are you gonna leave me alone today, or do you plan to follow me around like a creepy stalker?"

Castiel doesn't reply. He shimmies down the tree silently and cuts into the tree cover close to the stream. Dean does not call after him.                

***

Castiel does leave Dean alone for the rest of the day, but not at his request. He hadn't wanted to run into Dean that morning at all, but getting clean had been worth the risk. He makes it back to the house before Dean does, slipping into his locked room and resuming work on the arrows he'd set aside. Lucifer regards him idly; Castiel gets the feeling he is bored with waiting and would prefer to go out and gore their guests. Hence why he limits his contact with Dean and the others that come here. But he is reluctant to hide completely from Dean. He is mindful of his promise to Mary, even though it seems impossible to fulfill.

He goes out of his way not to harm Dean—to even tell him as much—though Dean remains, understandably, hostile. But Dean talks to him. Not in a friendly way, but fearlessly. Castiel is not used to that, but he thinks he would like to be. Dean is confident, even when presented with the impossibility of his own situation. This is something Castiel admires, perhaps because it is a trait they share.

Castiel wishes he didn't look so much like Michael. The more conversations he has with Dean, the more the two men blend together in his mind—and he doesn't recall much of Michael to begin with. He knows one thing for certain: Lucifer had hated Michael.

Of course, that's nothing new. Lucifer hates everyone. He hates everything. But Castiel knows his hatred of Michael had been something unique, predicated on something Michael had done. Castiel no longer recalls the specifics, but he suspects Lucifer's sharp focus on Dean is based at least partially on his resemblance to Michael Winchester.

_Michael,_ Lucifer says, and the walls of Castiel's mind shake. _Damn that bastard._

"Why? What did he do to you?"

Lucifer responds with a low chuckle, but doesn't provide any clarification on Michael. Typical.

Castiel ties feathers to shafts deliberately, carefully, ignoring the summoned pile of perfect arrows already in the corner. He wants to make something. He wants to make everything. He misses—creativity. That's the word.

_I prefer destruction,_ Lucifer interjects.

"Of course you do."

Night comes sooner than Castiel likes. At one moment, he is arranging his arrow pile; at the next, Lucifer is rummaging on the floor for his witch bowl. He cuts their wing open in the same place as the previous night, and Castiel thinks that's probably going to scar. He also talks to the same unfamiliar man Castiel had observed. When he's done, he takes the contents of his witch bowl and spreads it on his dark altar, painting it softly with their feathers.

Castiel is going to need another bath.

Abruptly, Lucifer takes a step back from the altar. A few seconds later, it bursts into flames, soundlessly. Castiel feels the heat, but the fire consumes only the altar—it catches nothing else.

It takes mere moments before the altar is consumed in fire. Before two minutes have passed, Castiel hears the patter of rain on the roof—and rolling thunder in the distance.

Strange. The day had been cloudless, and they're at the end of the summer storm season.

Castiel understands—too late—what the spell ingredients Lucifer had assembled are for.

He's summoning a storm—a bad one. Maybe bad enough to destroy the house and crush everyone in the rubble.

Castiel wrenches control from Lucifer for a moment, sprinting over to the chimney and looking up, out of the chimney flue. The sky is black with clouds, and two thunderheads collide in midair, spreading a shock of light across his vision. A moment later, the sound catches up: the splintering sound of wood destroyed by lightning.

He isn't hit, but the house is. Lucifer seizes control from him in his panic and rises out of the chimney. In seconds, Lucifer is soaking wet; his head is thrown back, chest out in a pose of pride. Lucifer, proud. Another bolt of lightning strikes, close; Lucifer's prideful shoulders collapse a bit as he takes flight, swooping over the storm-ravaged landscape of his prison.

It takes Castiel a moment to adjust to the low light and high speed; a feeling akin to motion sickness blurs his vision. Then, on the ground, Castiel sees Jo—and Jo sees him. She points, yells something that is unintelligible in the storm, and starts running in his direction. Dean remains where he is for a few moments, and when he starts moving he isn't following Jo.

Strange.

Lucifer holds his trajectory steady, moving toward the outer perimeter—toward the gate. He reaches it well before the receding figure of Jo. Castiel feels his shoulders tense as he rams his head face-first into the fire barrier.

Castiel braces for impact, but not enough. The fire, when it makes contact, sears a burn into their forehead so deep that Castiel's not sure even Lucifer can heal it.

He howls in pain, the sound lost by another hideous thunderous crack. Lucifer retreats to the ground, wings coming up to feel his face, assess the damage. He's still screaming, but it's quieter, and Castiel feels his profound disappointment as if it were his own.

Footsteps sound behind Lucifer, and he tenses and goes silent. Taking flight briefly, Lucifer lands in the sycamore left of the gate and watches the approach of the figure impassively. Castiel hopes against hope that it is Dean coming.

He should have known better than to hope. Jo emerges from the storm, limping, bedraggled, but upright. She reaches the gate and hesitates, staring at it more with curiosity than fear. She extends a hand to touch the gate and encounters the flame barrier. While she's stepping back, Lucifer lands behind her.

She turns, starts, but stands her ground. "It's you," Jo says. She doesn't seem all that surprised.

Lucifer lets out a sound like a cat half-mad in heat, and forcefully yanks Castiel to the front of their shared mind, yielding control. _Get her, champ_ , Lucifer says. _You've got this._

Castiel takes one look at the girl's fearless eyes and shakes his head. "I can't do this," Castiel says. "I can't."

Lucifer's laughter grates on his nerves, and pain pushes him forward. He is very close to Jo now, close enough that he could harm her without much effort, but she doesn't move. She's searching his eyes as if she's trying to figure him out.

He wonders why she doesn't run. It would do no good, of course, but…he grasps at any way of giving this young woman even a few more seconds of life. "I'm sorry," he says, and he's not sure who he's apologizing to. He just knows he needs to do it.

Lucifer sends a shock of cold fire into his burned head, trying to make him lash out, but he holds himself still. Jo finally surveys him with an expression of fear, but it's fear mixed with something—curiosity? Pity?

Still, she doesn't run. In the thin, obscured light of the moon, the bare skin of her shoulder shines like a beacon; Castiel focuses on it and sees the beginnings of a long pale scar.

She's hurt. That's why she's not running. That makes sense.

_You'll do this_ , Lucifer insists. _You promised._

"I'll—"He can't.

_You must._

"I'll give you Mary."

Lucifer chuckles. _What's that?_

"If you do it, you can have Mary, too," Castiel says. "It's what you want. Take it."

A moment later, Castiel is shunted into the back of his own mind, covering his face with his wings as Lucifer takes Jo apart piece by slow piece. While Castiel feels and experiences it—all of it—he is heartened by the fact that she doesn't scream. She refuses Lucifer that power over her. He likes to think she didn't die afraid—not completely afraid.

But she's still dead.

Another one he failed to save.

Castiel is failing a lot, lately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Jo. :( But, as everyone knows, death is rarely permanent in the SPN 'verse.


	20. Trapdoor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for an instance of self-harm and Dean being self-hating, though that second one should go without saying.

Dean spends the night and most of the morning relocating what remains of his things to the stable. It had survived the storm more or less intact, and until the land dries out he's unwilling to explore what remains of the damaged old house. While he collects sodden blankets, his sack of grain, his little remaining rope, and his half-pitchfork, his thoughts turn toward Jo.

He thinks she's dead. He thinks the monster killed her. He firmly believes that she is dead and that it is his damn fault for not preventing it, even with plenty of warning. He feels as useless as his father often thought him, and his jaw clenches together, holding in self-recriminations.

He has no proof that Jo is dead. When it's full light, he'll perform a thorough search of the perimeter. He waits, stews in his own guilt, and thinks.

He has a theory. Horrifying and insidious, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Dean believes the demon may be possessing him. He'd heard the demon on his first day here, and a handful of times since. The visits are increasing in duration and frequency. At least once, he'd lost time: he can't account for it, or the odd twinge in his shoulder afterward. There are no other memory gaps that he is aware of, but it may be that the demon doesn't need him awake, conscious, or paying attention. It could just be sitting in him, taking its time, learning how to act like him so that it could consume Dean more effectively. Pretending reluctance and kindness as a way of worming its way past his defenses.

Demons are tricky bastards. Dean wishes he'd paid better attention to what Bobby had said about them, but it's too late for that now.

The crux of this theory is that he hasn't seen this demon. Jo had claimed to, but he never had. It speaks to him, but he's the only one who hears it.

It might be in his head. It might have used him to kill Jo.

Dean pulls his last load of belongings into the relatively dry stable, stomping his feet in an attempt to ease their cold wet numbness. Pins and needles spread from his arches to his knees, making him collapse to the floor. He curls into a ball on top of a pile of old straw.

Jo is dead because of him.

He's already wet. A few tears won't change his appearance any. 

***

The next morning sees Dean’s mood depressed, but determined. He wants to test his theory, and to do that, he'll need evidence.

The house is in utter ruin in the aftermath of the storm. Shingles, stone and other debris dot the muddy landscape outside the stable. Dean hoofs it to the house and enters in. The main room had been hit near the window; the hearth and window are crushed to rubble. Dean is grateful for his boots as he picks over broken glass. The next room—the one with the table, and the angel drawings—had survived, at least structurally; a piece of one wall and a portion of the ceiling are gone. One of the more helpful side effects of this is that the locked room he had worked so hard to get into is now accessible. There's no longer any need for him to break through the door: the wall that is partially collapsed is between the two rooms.

Dean steps into the formerly locked room and looks up at the thin sunlight of early morning. Though the room he sees is half-destroyed, what remains is…disturbing.

The first thing that catches his eye is the mural: a dark figure enshrouded by huge wings that takes up the entirety of what remains of the ceiling. In the dim light, the wings look black; he takes a step into the room and the paint takes on a reddish cast, like blood. He forces himself to look away from it; when he does, he's confronted with more winged murals on every wall, and perhaps—though it's hard to tell—something on the floor as well. More angels. Dean is seeing them everywhere lately. Most of the painting is crude and childish, save the one on the ceiling, which appears professional. The demon had told him it had been a painter.

Dean wrenches his attention to the task at hand. He's here to find evidence.

A wooden dresser with all its drawers missing stretches horizontally over the floor. Its charred top speaks to recent fire; there is ash sprinkling the floor in places. A bundle—stuffed with feathers, it seems—lies half-chewed in a corner; the wild animals must have visited this place before Dean. There are neat bundles of arrows in one corner—six or seven of them, containing a dozen or so arrows each. He finds himself reaching tentatively for them, then snatches his hand back. He has no bow for the arrows anyway.

He turns around, suppressing a shudder, and is nearly blinded by the sheen of sunlight on metal. He blinks, and realizes he's looking at a bronze mirror.

The mirror is floor-length and freestanding, shoved against the wall directly in front of him. The base of the frame is cracked, but the glass is clear and clean. He takes in his own wild, disheveled appearance with a little frown. “One of these days, I’ll go full caveman,” he mutters. He mentally marks the mirror for scavenging, and continues to search for evidence. Or tools. Or weapons.

Unfortunately, the storm and the animals that had visited before him have picked this place pretty clean—at least of anything useful. He does find a bow as tall as he is, unstrung but in good shape; he wraps the string loosely around and ties the bow around himself.

He's about to leave the creepy-ass room and return to the stable with his haul when he looks down and notices an irregularity in the floorboards. He scuffs his foot over the odd spot, his boot meeting resistance. He bends down and reaches along the edges of the raised area, coming up with a rusted metal ring attached to the floor by a hinge.

Trapdoor.

The demon might be down there.

He pauses with his hand on the trapdoor and considers. This is the part of every hunt that Dean despises: the part in the monster's hideout. He needs backup, but Jo is—gone. Sam's not here.

In the end, he doesn't lift the ring. He gets up and, with both hands, takes the mirror out through the hole in the wall. He had come here looking for a way to get evidence. A mirror could allow him to get a glimpse of the demon—without endangering himself like a moron.

Never mind that he's already moronic enough for coming, and staying, here by himself.

He's a moron.

He lugs the mirror back to the stable and arranges it upright a foot or so from his makeshift bed. If anyone comes in from the door—or from above him, from most angles—he'll be able to see them.                

***

Dean spends the rest of the day sticking as close to the stable as possible. The mirror is there. If he sits in front of it long enough, the demon will come up behind him, and he'll see him in the reflection. If he sees no reflection, he can assume—with a decent degree of certainty—that he has been possessed.

Dean picks at the edges of his anti-possession tattoo distractedly. He wishes he had a book or something. He wishes he’d thought to take more of the arrows from the rubble—not all of them had been fletched, and fletching would have distracted him.

All he has to do is wait, and it’s driving him up the wall.

This is fucking stupid.

The sun is going down before Dean hears anything at all from outside. A soft rustling like a bird taking off shakes him out of his boredom. Instantly alert, Dean fixes his eyes on the mirror and doesn’t move.

“Hello, Dean,” the voice says mildly. “Would you mind moving the mirror?”

“You see that, huh?” Dean asks, eyes darting around the stable and out the open door.

“I see everything,” the voice says tightly.

Because that’s not threatening or terrifying at all. He’s talked to this thing—whatever it is—quite a few times now, and he’s tired of it always beating around the bush. He wants clear answers, so he asks a direct question: "Are you—possessing me?"

The silence is so profound that Dean suspects he's been left alone. When the demon answers, the voice is soft, childlike. "No. I can't do that. I realize you have no reason to believe me, but—I wouldn't lie to you, Dean. Not about that. Not about anything, if I can help it."

Demons lie. They are seductive and they lie and there is no way Dean is trusting one.

“Then why can’t I see you?”

“I told you.”

“And I don’t buy your explanation.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s the truth.”

“Truth.” Dean spits. “Give me a reason to believe you.”

Silence. Dean had not seen anything at all in the mirror.

***

He's been alone for three days straight: longer than he's ever been cut off from others before. Even his sojourns to the forest would usually turn up an animal or two. A beetle. A mosquito. Something. But he hasn't seen anything living at all in seventy-six hours and he thinks, with the part of himself that remains calm in all situations, that this state of events has finally started to drive him insane. This part of himself had developed after his mother's death, when his father would leave him with Sam for weeks on end while he took off to take care of the family business.

Keeping things together for Sam had been difficult, but not impossible. Keeping himself together while he's alone feels purposeless, and on the fourth night Dean spends alone, he decides to indulge the feeling. He takes his silver knife and makes a thin incision along the edge of one of his scars; a faded one given to him by a shifter as a teenager. Another cut. Another. The incisions bleed shallowly, and he licks along the edges of them, tasting rust.

He’s not possessed. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He remembers, in the hazy way that he remembers things he’s only seen underwater, that he’d cut open his scalp after his mother died. Just like this, shallow. He doesn’t want to die, but pain is a nice distraction.

He’s sitting on his bed facing the mirror because he’s still not convinced the demon is separate from him—physically, at least—and he’s determined to catch the demon if it kills him. The moon is large and bright, hanging in the sky like a Christmas lantern, but the light is receding. It’s the middle of the night. Dean should be sleeping. Instead he’s slicing his arm open to keep his mind from racing about demons and possessions and murder.

And, what’s worse, it’s not working: cutting himself helps him focus more on his problems, not less. He needs to move; he needs to get away from it for a while. After his newest cut stops bleeding, Dean gets up to check the house again. He’s almost out of his own food stores and he’d be willing to trust the magic food laid out in the house—maybe. Even if he’s not willing to trust it, he’s willing to eat it. Even if it means the demon will devour him. He’s starving and he’s going crazy and he would have lost track of what day it was if he hadn’t been able to use his knife to cut thin notches in the wall of the stable.

There has been no food laid out in the house in the past few days, and Dean does not expect to find any now. So it’s something of a kick in the pants when the familiar spread of meat, bread and fruit lies waiting for him on the old scarred table, a single chair pulled right up, ready and waiting for him. Wind blows through the broken window and wall, slamming his clothing against his skin, but Dean ignores that. He tears into the bread like the starving man he is, inhaling a wheat roll largely without chewing and shoving meat into his mouth. He doesn’t bother to sit; he’s been sitting too long.

"Hello, Dean,” the voice of the demon says behind him.

Dean swallows carefully, just managing not to cough in surprise. "It's almost midnight,” Dean says, and is somewhat alarmed at the complaining nature of his tone. It’s not like he enjoys hearing from the demon—but he's almost happy to hear from anyone, right now. “Where've you been?"

"Far away."

"Gee, that's descriptive." He bites into a peach and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. He’s missed real food—though he really should ask where it comes from.

"I've been to the edge of the forest,” Castiel says. “I was trying to see if Jo got home or not.”

“And?”

“I saw no signs of her in the forest.”

That’s something, though it’s not anything like proof. “Hm,” Dean says, finishing his peach.

“I take it you’ve decided to trust me.”

It’s not a question. Dean is a bit nonplussed. “I’m starving,” he says. “If this food makes me sick and die, oh well—starvation’s a slow, nasty death.”

The voice mimics his unimpressed “Hm.” Then, “You know I wouldn’t do that, Dean.”

“Actually,” Dean says, swallowing heavily, “I don’t know a damn thing about what you’ll do.”

“What could I do to make you trust me?”

Dean laughs. “You don’t get it. You can’t make someone trust you. Trust is earned over time—and you’ve already proven yourself a shady character.” Dean desperately wishes the mirror were here. He might have to start carrying it around, difficult though that would be.

“I understand,” the voice says, an undercurrent of excitement marking his tone. “I have an idea.”

That sounds…bad. “An idea, huh. What?”

“Would you like to see your family?”

Dean is briefly stunned. “Of course,” Dean says, “but isn’t that impossible?”

“No,” the voice answers. “You saw the trapdoor. Open it. They’ll be on the other side. You’ll see them.”

Dean squints at nothing, hands moving to his hips. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing,” the voice answers. “The door shows everyone what they want most. The only things you’ve told me about yourself concern your family. The door will show you them.”

“Or you could be waiting on the other side of the door. You could be sending me into a trap.”

“Yes,” the voice concedes. “But trust must be earned. On both sides. If we continue in this way, neither of us can trust one another.”

“And what makes you think I _want_ to trust you?”

“I don’t,” the voice says. “I think you want to see your family. Am I wrong?”

He’s not wrong, and Dean hates him for it. Dean finishes his meal and stands up. "Let me see you."

"No."

Dean performs a search of the house in ruins, but it's perfunctory; he is unsurprised when he finds nothing. The stable is empty and cold, like the stars overhead, like Dean's life.

A chill spreads from Dean's spine outward, causing a full-body shiver of alarm. He hasn't seen the demon. He's looked, and there's nothing. He must be possessed.

When he returns to the stable, he gathers his blanket around his shoulders and keeps shivering.


	21. The Garden

Dean sleeps most of the next day, content to remain near the mirror; he’d eaten enough the previous night to stave off most hunger pangs. The demon visits him in the stable that night, and again the next day, but remains unseen—though Dean is half-convinced he'd seen its shadow departing on the second day. Food appears in the house, which Dean accepts with grudging belligerence, but he doesn't intend to keep doing that for much longer. He has a bow now, and arrows. He has sacks and containers suitable to put up food for winter. He decides to do what he'd considered upon first arriving in this place: live in the woods, at least until winter comes on. Reliable food and water would be easier to get at, and he'd be at least slightly removed from the demon's home turf. He can live in the woods in winter with a fair chance of survival.

Self-sufficiency makes him feel better about his situation. Relying on the demon for anything is dishonest. He doesn't know where the demon acquires his resources, but he's sure they don't come from anywhere good. 

Dean has no fear of the forest. He knows he can't go far into it because of the fire barrier, but he trusts it more than the ruined and crumbling outbuildings of the house.

Then the first hard frost of autumn hits without warning. When Dean awakens in the stable to a dead fire and a chill wind blowing through holes in the walls, he shivers, pulling his blankets around him, hunching his shoulders in and breathing into his hands. He'll need pitch for the walls, logs for the fire, flint stones. He'll need to make or find other clothes, other blankets. Assuming he can find shelter away from here, he'll need to transport his meager resources to that location.

A war of practicality and safety begins in his mind. Staying here would nearly guarantee him a steady supply of food, and adequate, if inferior, shelter. Leaving now—just before winter—has risks, the least of which is running into the demon in the open air, without protection of any kind. He has the mirror here, and he's been relatively safe, at least physically—all things considered.

Jo had vanished when she'd run away from the house. Dean more than half believes that she is dead. Who's to say what will befall him if he wanders off the trusted paths he's been taking?

As circulation warms his hands and feet, he decides to table the decision to move until he has a solid answer on the demon. He needs to know if it's possessing him. If it is, he needs to exorcise it. If it's not, he needs to find where it's hiding and exorcise it there. He finds himself muttering broken Latin over his healing cuts like a benediction.

Deferring the decision makes Dean calmer, but staying so close to the destroyed house is still uncomfortable. He hasn't been able to trap the demon into showing itself in the mirror yet—not that he hasn't tried—but they're talking almost every day now, and it's freaking Dean out more than he likes to admit. It also scares him that he feels so much like himself; he had always expected possession to feel different. Like he'd become a different person, performing evil acts for their own sake. He might be, and have no memory of it, and that idea terrifies him more than any monster.

The night after the frost, Dean quickly grabs a basket of food off the table in the house and sprints back to the stable. This is the time of day that the demon usually visits, and he wants it to come within visual distance of the mirror.

He doesn't hear the demon's voice until he's settled back in the stable before the mirror. The "Hello, Dean," when it comes, is reassuring. The demon follows up his greeting with, "You know that you will never see me in the mirror."

Dean thinks, _Never say never_ , but he says. "Yeah, I know." The bread is unusually good today, and he savors it before it goes down. He closes his eyes. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"I don't know, anything. Ever since you chased Jo off, I'm by myself all the time; I'm starting to go crazy here." That's true. He's thought—more than once—about heading back to the broken room and the trapdoor, but he's reluctant to do that with the demon loose.

There's a heavy sound, somewhat like a sigh. "I take it you haven't visited your family yet."

"No."

"Why?"

"Honestly? I think it's a trap."

"Hm." The voice sounds thoughtful. "What if I went with you? Behind you, so that you know where I am?"

Dean swallows heavily and considers. "You would do that?"

"Yes."

"Why?" he asks, echoing the demon's line of questioning.

"I have no desire to make you go crazy."

Too late for that. Dean finishes the bread and rubs his hands together. "Okay. But keep talking so that I know where you are. I don't want you sneaking up on me." 

***

The room with the trapdoor is damp with recent rain and morning mist; mold grows along the baseboards and floor. Dean coughs a little and pulls the ring of the trapdoor up savagely, making its hinges creak. "Where are you?" he asks.

"Behind you. A little above."

Dean listens closely to the voice and determines that, at the very least, it is likely not emerging from the gaping maw of darkness revealed by the door. Edging his shoulders forward, Dean pushes into the enveloping dark.

There is silence for a few moments, and Dean turns, yelling, "Where the fuck are you?"

"I'm out here," the voice returns, and it is muffled. Either the demon is outside of him, or it's very good at throwing its voice. "Be patient."

Dean blinks, willing himself to see. A pinprick of light catches the edge of his vision. As he stares at it, it grows, becoming a glowing sphere. And inside the sphere, like a scene suspended inside a glass orb, he sees his family.

Sam and Jessica are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at a table at the Hound and Whip, grinning like idiots. John is drunk off his ass at the bar; he smells like vodka, or worse. His forehead had scabbed over and healed nicely, leaving almost no sign of the parting injury Dean had given him.

In fact, the whole scene looks too perfect. It's like they don't even care that he's gone. And that shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

Then Sam sighs, a little sadly, as he looks at Jessica. He says, "I wish Dean were here."

His voice is quiet, but Dean hears it. Dean looks at him, eyes full of hope.

Kate's shrill voice cuts over the din. "Be grateful you have the rest of your family here with you," she says, and gestures for one of the servingmen to pour her another glass of wine.

One of the wedding guests, a woman Dean doesn't recognize, asks, "Who is Dean?"

"My brother," Sam says.

 "Oh." The woman's forehead creases. "Is he missing?"

No one answers, and Dean's fingernails dig deeply into his palms.

"Can I—" Dean stops, then starts again. "Can I go in there?"

The voice, when it answers, is as muffled as it had been before. "No, I really wouldn’t advise it."

"Just to tell them I'm alive? That I'm okay?"

"No."

"Please." He regrets the word as soon as it's out. He's begging a demon for something. It's like the demon has already broken him; it already possesses him in every way that matters.

There is a noticeable pause like deliberation, but the denial remains firm: "No."

Adam touches Sam's shoulder awkwardly. Sam accepts the support with a gentle nod, and he and Jessica get up to dance. Dean's heart leaps to his throat; he takes a step and enters the scene in the orb, the curved surface rippling slightly as he passes through. He walks to Sam's other side, hoping against hope for some kind of recognition—some way for Sam to see him. He reaches out to ruffle the kid's hair, but his empty hand goes right through Sam's head. He keeps dancing with Jessica, oblivious, but this close Dean can see the old pain behind his eyes.

He wonders how long he's been gone. Weeks, certainly. Months, more likely. He had lost track some time back.

He thinks Sam might not get over this—him being gone, maybe forever. He hadn't thought about that before leaving, and that fact makes him feel unbelievably guilty and selfish. He'd thought he'd been saving Sam. No, he had saved Sam—he's getting married and everything—but Dean thinks he should have run the cost past his brother first, now.

Because he doesn't want to look at Sam—not right now, please not right now—he shifts his attention to his father. Still drunk. He's gained weight, and though he's clean-shaven he hadn't done a very good job around his jowls. His eyes are filmed-over and look vaguely yellow, like jaundice.

He's drinking himself to death.

"What the hell is this?" Dean mutters. His cheeks are wet, and his face is burning.

"I said you would see them," the demon says distantly, as if he's far above him. "Not that they would see you."

Dean goes to his knees in front of one of the tables. People walk through him. He's not there.

After a moment, Dean nods and wipes his nose. Then he takes a step backward, out of the orb, and reemerges in the room with the trapdoor. He collapses on the floor for a moment with his back to the closed door, breathing, holding every threatening emotion in. "That was—cruel," Dean says, spitting the world. "You're an asshole." Dean hugs himself and stares at the floor. "Poor Sam. And dad—" He swallows. "I hate you."

"Should I go?"

"No," Dean says, and the quickness of his response shocks even him. "Stay. It's worse when I'm—totally alone. Sometimes I want to rip this place apart and find you, I _do_ —and I'm not scared you'll kill me," Dean says, scrubbing one hand over the bottom of his face. "I'm kinda scared that—well." He swallows, lifting his head a little; his skull thuds back across the trapdoor. "I think that there'll be no one. That I've made you up for some reason."

"Made me up?" the demon asks, letting some acerbity seep into its tone.

"That you're in my head. And you're either possessing me, or—"

He realizes, with a start, that Jo had _never_ heard a voice. The monster had never talked to her, only to him. And while his father had made a deal with something here, there was no guarantee that the thing hovering over him was the same. The demon—if demon it is—has made no mention of its deal with John.

"You're possessing me, or you're not real."

"If I'm not real, what am I?"

"Like I said," Dean breathes, and the revelation leaves him strangely excited, "I could have made you up. Out of boredom, you know?" Dean asks. "Or—loneliness."

"Are you lonely?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"The point is that even with you here, I'm alone," Dean says. "I've lost my family, which were my reason for living. You get that. You saw it. And now I think I'm losing my mind, hallucinating you—you leaving out food or clothes or God knows what, if any of it's even real."

"It's real."

"Yeah, not very reassuring." Dean spreads his arms over the entire span of the trapdoor. "I saw that monster with your voice, once, I think, but that seems more like a bad dream all the time."

He pauses. "You know, it almost makes sense. I came here because if dad left the business would fall apart. I had no plan. I didn't even stop at Bobby's for intel, or say a real goodbye to Sam, or—" He swallows. "Well. I had no plan. I thought the demon would find me and kill me—or I'd kill it—and that would be that. The end. I'd either be dead, or I could go back. But that's not how things have gone at all, and I'm trying to make it make sense."

Dean sits up. "What if there isn't a demon? What if dad lied? Or what if I came to the wrong place, and the demon is somewhere else? What if I just landed here and decided to stay? What if—"

Silence. The demon breaks it. "So you think you're hallucinating."

"I don't fucking know," Dean says, and he sounds genuinely confused, like a frustrated or disappointed child. "There's magic here. That fire at the perimeter burned me. I saw my mom—and you—"

"Now you think I'm a ghost," the demon says, and Dean thinks he hears the slightest hint of exasperation.

"Maybe? It makes sense."

“Well, which is it? Am I a ghost, a hallucination, or a demon?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I hoped you would tell me.”

“You don’t trust me. Would you believe me?”

Dean hesitates. The demon’s trick, while cruel in its outcome, had not been outright deceptive. His food has remained undoctored, save for that one strange night where he'd passed out. He’s still alive. This monster does seem to be exerting itself to help him, in some ways.

But it’s not trustworthy.

“No,” Dean says softly. He returns to the stable and stares into the mirror until dawn. 

***

The glimpse Dean had been afforded of his family helps him focus over the next few days. Even if he's possessed, he's at least given Sammy a better life—if only the kid doesn't come looking for him. That that gnaws under his skin, starting as an infrequent neural itch and becoming a full-blown panic-inducing constant fear.

But he can't let the demon, if it exists, see him afraid.

Besides, he has other things to be worried about—other things to be scared of. The cold snap that had kicked off autumn had been a precursor to much worse weather. Dean wakes up every morning to frozen breath, chattering teeth and cold toes. He is fortunate to find pitch at the riverbed one day, which is sufficient to keep the wind from cutting through the walls of the stable—but it's not enough to keep the building warm. Not nearly enough.

Food continues to appear inside the house, but as the temperature drops, Dean considers whether or not the trek is worthwhile. By the time snow begins to fall, he must sprint from place to place to keep his blood from freezing.

The demon continues to speak to him, but that contact is more sporadic than it had been in the middle of autumn. He gets the sense that the creature is hibernating—or that the cold harms it somehow. Since their odd bargain with the trapdoor, Dean hasn't wanted to talk to the demon at all.

As winter grips the forest and sends the trees to sleep, Dean realizes that the demon is the only thing keeping him alive.

Without the demon's food, he'd die. No question. The little stores Dean had set aside had lasted weeks, not the months required to withstand winter. Of course he thought he'd have killed the demon by now, but killing it would require seeing it—and he hasn't, yet. At this rate the winter will kill him before the demon does.

Dean sits in his meager shelter alone, considering his options.

They aren't great.

Defeated, Dean scrambles through snow on half-dead feet and opens the trapdoor again. He gets a glimpse of Sam and a very pregnant Jessica in a snowball fight against his dad and Adam. Kate, bedraggled, appears to have been targeted by both sides. Dean smiles, but it feels hollow.

When he returns to the entryway he sees that more food has been set out, but he doesn't touch it. He runs toward the fire barrier near the iron gate. When the flames spring to life, the snow at his feet hisses and turns to steam; a wash of warmth courses over him. He gets as close as is possible, then trudges along the line of fire. Either he'll find a gap in the defenses, or he'll stay warm while looking. He's narrowed his options to three: escape, be killed by the winter, or be killed by the demon.

Never mind that the demon doesn't seem to want to kill him. That doesn't make it any less of a threat. Even if it's not real, it's a threat to Dean's ability to live through this.

The fiery path makes the dull gray of the sky seem brighter, hurting Dean's eyes; he ducks his head as he travels, careful not to wander close enough to the fire to allow it to burn him. Death by conflagration hadn't been one of his options.

He wanders most of that day, coming to a corner once at the edge of a burned patch of forest. The other side appears verdant and untouched, and Dean remembers thinking, when he'd arrived, that the burned trees had been laid out in some kind of pattern. He turns along with the fire wall, keeping it at his left side.

When the sun starts setting and Dean's nowhere near his starting point, he starts to worry. He hasn't eaten since morning, he's been walking all day, and he doesn't know the fastest way back from here. He wishes he'd had the forethought to pack snowshoes, as big and bulky as the things are.

The night becomes black as pitch, accentuated by the glare of the fire, and despite the warmth of the barrier the darkness spreads a chill over everything. Dean gets as close to the fire as he can, but his hands are still going numb, and it's not like he can camp in place—the melted snow turns to water, which turns, increasingly, to ice.

Dean slips three times before he decides a little cold is better than breaking his neck on half-melted ice. He resigns himself to walking all night—eventually, he should get back to the gate.

As the cold spreads from his hands to his heart, he feels his eyelids droop and walks faster. Falling asleep out here could easily spell his death. As his pace increases, his breath tendrils out behind him as if his spirit is attempting escape. He keeps his eyes fixed forward stoically, and as he approaches the next corner turn of the barrier, he sees a gleaming structure of ice.

Well, that's what it looks like, anyway. As he gets closer, he determines that the structure is too angular to have formed naturally: though it gleams like snow in the light of the fire, it has to be something else. Dean pushes himself faster to investigate the structure; maybe it will provide shelter enough for him to rest.

He's right on top of it before he discovers that it's a house. There's a door, and more gleaming windows than he can count; though he can't be sure in the dark, he's fairly sure the entire thing is made of glass. He wrenches open the door of the building and closes it hastily, rubbing his hands together against the cold and damp. Then he feels a rush of incredibly warm air seep into his skin, so warm it's almost _hot_ , and he collapses gratefully to the ground.

Dean finds a place in a quiet corner between two panes of glass. The cold comes in a little, but the reflective surface makes him feel safer. He falls asleep between two thoughts, his feet warm for the first time in weeks.


	22. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sam and Bobby for a bit. We'll get back to Dean and Cas soon. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for making Tamora horse…I just couldn't imagine her as Gordon's wife or something, and I always liked and felt sorry for her. As I'm sure Bobby did, as well. (Also I wanted Rufus to have a badass moment later…so he is also a horse. Sorry. Animal transformations [ are apparently my thing ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669372). Also, in my universe, Sam always tries to save Dean. Always. (Amelia doesn’t exist in this AU. :P)

It is not Sam that finds out Dean is missing, but Jessica. She awakens the morning after Dean's departure, rousing the rest of the house when she finds him gone—Sam first.

Since Sam is not an idiot, he knows exactly where Dean went. Quietly, he's proud of his idiotic brother, but he knows that someone needs to go after him. Sam skips breakfast and runs toward the stable—but his dad is there, in the way, his swollen face and busted lip grotesque in the light of early morning.

Rather than getting in another fight, Sam makes the instant decision to turn tail and sprint to Bobby's. His father's sluggish eyes pursue him for a moment, but he makes no move to give chase. He hasn't been able to outrun Sam since he'd turned twelve.

Besides, Bobby's old mare, Tamora, would serve just fine for this situation.

When he reaches Bobby's shack at the end of town, he finds Garth and Ash there ahead of him, grousing about short rations. He pauses in Bobby's yard. "What's going on?"

"The doc wouldn't front the miller the cost of the millwheel," Ash says. "The tavern's gone two days without bread."

"And so has the town," Garth says.

Sam hms to himself. He'd heard some rumblings about the mill earlier that week, but he'd thought Zachariah would take care of it. He'll have to stop by the Miltons' on his way back home.

"Is Bobby in?" Sam asks. "I need to ask a favor."

At that moment, Bobby himself emerges from inside the house, eyes red-rimed and looking quite a bit worse for the wear. "What d'you want, idjits?"

Garth flinches, but Sam smiles. "I take it the miller's grain and hops have gone to the distilleries?"

Bobby doesn't answer, but Ash flashes him a grin that's as good as confirmation. The town's surplus grain can't be used for flour, but it can be used for spirits.

Sam clears his throat. "So, Bobby…"

"Sam," Bobby says, nodding genially. "What can I do for ya?"

"I was hoping I could borrow Tamora for the day."

"Something wrong with your horses?"

"No, no," Sam says, and he'd prefer to get out of here before Bobby asks too many questions. If he's lucky, he'll be riding home tonight with Dean. And if he's unlucky—well, that's something he'd rather not think about. "Dad's pissed and won't let me in the stable."

Bobby gives him a hard-edged look that makes it clear he doesn't completely believe Sam's story. In the end, though, he grunts and nods. "She's all yours," Bobby says. "Just have her back—and fed—by nightfall."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, smiling relief.

"Don't call me that," he says. "I ain't your daddy."

Sam sprints for Bobby's stable before he's finished talking. Bobby has only two horses: Tamora, a nag closer to twenty than ten with a generally sweet disposition, and Rufus.

Sam has never been entirely sure what to think about Rufus. He's big—sixteen hands high, and more than strong enough to pull Bobby's cart and plow, though truthfully he's not the kind of horse suited to either job, and Bobby doesn't work him much. He spends most of his time out to pasture, black coat glistening, eyes fiercely independent. He had been the last horse foaled by Tamora—Karen Singer had been a tamer and breaker of horses, but she'd died before she could tame Rufus.

Briefly, the thought that he could take Rufus crosses Sam's mind, but he doesn't do it. Tamora is generally calm toward her friends, but Rufus nearly took his hand off once when he'd offered him an apple, and he's not even very friendly with Bobby.

He saddles up Tamora hastily, making a good many mistakes that slow him down. Bobby comes in to help him tighten the straps and set the bit comfortably. "Where you off to, Sam?"

Sam shrugs in a way that he hopes looks carefree. "Dean went off somewhere. I'm following him."

Bobby looks at him for a moment, frowning, but doesn't ask for further clarification. "Well, he can't have got far," Bobby says. "Ash tried drinking him under the table yesterday, so he won't be movin' fast." Bobby pats Tamora softly between the eyes, and the horse lifts its tail and nuzzles into his hand. "Bring him back over here when he gets back, y'hear?"

"Sure, Bobby," Sam says, struggling to keep his tone light. He's suddenly quite glad that Dean had decided to go drinking the night before.

Sam mounts up and picks through the crowded street carefully. It's still early, but there are many people moving to and fro, milling about for church. Zachariah Milton gives him a sour look as he passes, and the one he gets from Gordon Walker isn't much friendlier.

Lisa Braeden's little boy reaches up and asks for an apple. Sam smiles, but shakes his head; he looks up, and sees Lisa looking considerably more gaunt than she had last month. Even though he's in a hurry, Sam checks the horse at the side of the road and asks, "Lisa? What's wrong?"

"The wagons your father ordered weren't just carrying wedding goods," she says. "A lot of the town bought food. Staples like flour, spelt, nuts, dried meat—enough to get us all through winter."

And none of the wagons had been recovered.

Sam nods tightly. "I'll talk to my father about it and see if there's something we can do."

"Thanks, Sam."

Trouble ahead of him, and trouble behind. At least Dean's probably not moving fast.

Sam makes it out of Lawrence easily, sighting only a few travelers on the road, mostly game hunters. He tips his hat to each and feels the hilt of his silver knife, always carried, dig into his side. The knife reminds him of Dean—he has the same one; it's a matching set.

"Dean," he says under his breath, shaking his head.

Though he recalls much of what Dean, Bobby and Ellen had told him of the site of the attack, he does lose his way once at a fork and spends fifteen minutes on the wrong path. When he recognizes the road to Black Rock, he knows he took a wrong turning and retraces his steps. When he reaches the fork again, he finds a set of horse tracks that can't be more than a few hours old; the hoof impressions are clear as cuts in the mud. He breathes deeply and hopes it's Dean he's following and not someone—or something—else.

The trees move in around him, narrowing the path to an alarming degree. Sam draws his knife to defend against an attack from close quarters; one of those ravens could easily be hiding somewhere. But nothing accosts him, though the dark forbidding branches form an unbreakable arch overhead and press in closer—always closer.

Around noon Sam becomes hungry, and realizes he's neglected provisions in his haste. He flips open Tamora's saddlebag on a whim and comes up with a flask of whiskey and a loaf of stale bread. Good old Bobby. Underneath the food and drink, he finds a weather-beaten book with more dog-ears than clean pages and more notes than printed text: one of Bobby's spellbooks.

He should have known better: Bobby had known exactly where he was going. He has to remember to buy the man a beer when he gets home.

The trees thin out a bit—or, more accurately, new trees grow on top of dead and burned ones, making the canopy less dense and granting Sam a bit more light. Tamora stumbles briefly as the forest path turns to stone.

He's getting close. The trees spread out, and there are fewer burn victims in their midst, almost as if the forest fire had skipped over this place. An oak that, judging by its girth, is more than a hundred years old leans perilously into the path, its roots cutting through the pave-stones. Tamora stumbles again; Sam feels something pull in his back and curses.

Something black and dense cuts across his vision like a smear of oil. He blinks sunspots out of his eyes and focuses on the source of the darkness—a thorn hedge at least twelve feet high and too thick to see through. Some of the trees obstruct his view, but as he moves closer, he knows he's reached the right place.

Except, well—there aren't any ravens. Or any wagons. Or any sign of anyone passing anywhere near here. It's a dead end. He has no way to hack through the hedge—but Dean must have come this way. The tracks Sam had seen had been fresh and unfamiliar: the tracks of the demon's horse.

He hasn't seen anyone else in hours. Dean had to have come this way, so there must be a way through.

Sam dismounts and ties Tamora to one of the oaks lining the road. He approaches the hedge cautiously, a step at a time. Nothing happens. He notices, though, that there are no insects. No crickets, no mosquitoes, no spiders or wasps—nothing that he expected to see. There are no animals either; nothing to break the eerie silence save the chuckle of water at a little distance and the sound of Tamora's hooves clomping on stone.

When Sam is less than a foot from the hedge, white-orange flames lick from the bottom of the thorns to the top in moments, obscuring everything in fire. Sam takes a sudden step back in surprise, and the flames go out. He breathes and wipes sweat from his forehead. "Neat trick," he mutters.

Sam steps toward the hedge again with the goal of examining the behavior of the fire. He looks back and forth for as far as his vision can go; it appears that the entire hedge is on fire, but the fire isn't spreading. Even when the flames touch a piece of underbrush, the licking orange tongues consume nothing. Sam slips out a tentative hand toward the fire, and yanks it back when the flames bite his hand, cold instead of hot.

"Magic," he breathes. Cold fire. That fits; his dad had claimed to be running from a demon. If the fire had merely been a trap for intruders, it would not have felt cold—and it would have consumed the plant life near to it.

Sam returns to Tamora pulls out the book of spells Bobby had packed for him. Most are crossed out or so illegible they're useless, but Sam had earmarked a dispelling charm, long ago when he and Bobby had hunted a witch together.

This particular spell calls for fairly simple ingredients—wheat cut with a silver knife, river stones, and a few drops of witch blood. Consequently, it's not particularly potent, but it's a good way to test if something's been hexed by demonic magic, or something else. It can also remove the effects of minor spells—and some major ones, temporarily.

Aside from witch blood, Sam is able to find all the other ingredients easily. He gathers them in his handkerchief, an impromptu hex bag, and shrugs, cutting open his finger and spilling a few drops of blood. The spell might not work, but he doesn't have time to capture a witch and kill it right now.

He ties the ends of the handkerchief together, holds his hex bag aloft, and throws it into the fiery hedge, chanting the spell's incantation.

The fire flares around the hex bag, flickers and goes out.

Sam grins, immensely pleased with himself. He hadn't expected that to work so well. He puts his hand through the barrier, testing it again—

 --and has to snatch his hand back when the flames return, as fierce as ever.

Sam's sleeve is singed and he has second-degree burns on the fingertips of his left hand, but they'll heal. Sam knows what to do.

He needs Bobby, and a lot more hex bags. 

***

Sam returns Tamora late in the day, and Bobby helps unsaddle her, brush and feed her with grain Sam bought in town. Sam gives him half a day's pay for his trouble, which Bobby tries to refuse, but Sam insists. When he starts talking about the fire and the hex bag, Bobby's eyes get the sharp glint of focus into them, and he forgets to refuse Sam's payment.

"So your daddy got mixed up with a demon after all," Bobby mutters. "Figures."

Sam nods. "I'm not sure why the hex bag worked—I didn't have witch's blood, so I used my own."

For a moment, Bobby's eyebrows raise in alarm. Then he shrugs. "Some of those old spells are less picky than others. Which was it? I'll look it over and get started on those hex bags. Garth'll help. Garth!"

Garth pops his head into the doorway. His eyelids are droopier than usual. "Yes?"

Bobby looks like he's about to ask him to stay, but he must think better of it. "Go home," Bobby says. "But I need ya here early tomorrow, if ya can be."

"Of course," Garth says.

"All right," Bobby says. "Git." As Garth retreats, he turns to Sam. "You'd best get on home yourself. You and your girl are gettin' married next Sunday, aren't ya?"

Sam gulps. In his frenzy over finding Dean, he'd nearly forgotten the wedding date—though of course not the wedding itself. He is hoping for a low-key affair, but he knows his father likely won't let that happen; half the town is invited, and the rest are coming anyway.

And he's just left Jessica alone—all day—with his drunk, depressed father and Adam. Shit. Poor woman. He knows she can handle them, but she shouldn't have to. She's given enough—and put up with enough—from him already.

He's also missed his shift at the store.

"I should get back," Sam says, words sticking in his throat. He wants to swear. He'd dropped all his responsibilities to bring Dean back, and not only had he failed, but he'd let down the other people he cared about, too.

He tries not to let his feelings of inadequacy linger. If Dean were here…

Well. He's not.

"Bye, Sam," Bobby says, shooing him out the door.

Sam's halfway home before he realizes that Bobby's slipped his money back in his pants pocket.

Sometimes he wonders what he'd done to deserve Bobby. Or Dean. He's clearly a terrible person—other people shouldn't treat him as well as they do. He sighs, scuffing his shoes in the road on the way home in the way his father always used to chastise him for. He enters the house by the servants' way, hoping to avoid his father and sneak into his bedroom, or the living room—where Jessica usually stays.

He pokes his head out of the doorframe connected to the stairway, and sees no one. Stepping into the living room, he nearly collides with a shadow in the corner.

Someone's in here after all. Sam's hands come up automatically to defend himself. "Who's there?"

"Oh, you're home." Adam's nasally whine cuts through the darkness: a dull sound, like a butter knife pushing through cheese. "Wondered when you'd be home. Dad's worried sick."

Sam doubts that. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

Sam feels, rather than sees, Adam shrug. "I was about to light the fire," he says. Sam steps back, allowing him access to the fireplace. He hears the sounds of the tinder box being fiddled with; as his eyes adjust to the dark, he catches the dull gunmetal glint of the flintstone.

When the kindling catches, the wash of heat is sudden, and Sam lets out a pent-up breath. The glint he had noticed in the dark had not been from the tinderbox. Adam has the pistol their father brought back in his belt.

Sam stares at it, frowning. "Why do you have that?"

"What?" Adam asks, following the line of his eyes. "Oh, that. It's nothing," he says. "Dad asked me to take a look at it. See if it was identifiable—stuff like that." He's fidgeting, and not really looking at Sam—all of which makes Sam quite suspicious.

"Can I see?" he asks.

Adam nods, but he hesitates for a fully discomfiting ten seconds before handing the gun over. "Thanks," he says. "I wanted to look it over at work, tomorrow. I'll give it back to you when I'm done."

Adam nods, though he still looks nervous.

"You all right?" Sam asks, putting on his most disarming smile. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

And he does: pale, fish-eyed. But Adam shakes his head vehemently. "I'm going to bed," he says, snatching an old leather-bound book from the side table in front of the fireplace. Sam watches him go, somewhat bewildered. Adam's been acting strange since their dad came back. Granted, Adam always acted somewhat strange—but he's been guarding his books jealously, and avoiding family meals. Sam makes a mental note to ask around town about him.

Quietly, so as not to disturb his father, Sam sneaks into the room that he and Jessica share. He strips to his underwear quickly and slides into bed, shifting the straw in the mattress. Jessica's hand finds his place in the dark, and she mutters, "Too early."

"Yes," Sam says, taking her hand in both of his. "Go to sleep."

He should really be sleeping in his own bed; they aren't married yet. But John doesn't care, and the damage has already been done. Sam cups one hand around Jessica's waist protectively, and falls asleep to the sound of her calm, even breathing.


	23. Bitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is Bobby's fate to witness major plot points. Woe is him. Also, apparently this is set post-1850 because Lohengrin is a thing. Who knew?
> 
> We return to Dean and Cas next time...

The week leading up to the Winchester wedding is a busy one for Bobby and Garth. Aside from meat, food in town is scarce, and his wares are snatched up as soon as they're offered, for whatever price he asks. Unlike Gordon, Bobby has kept his prices flat; he doesn't want the town to starve because it can't afford to eat. He considers putting his own supply of smoked meats up for sale, but that would leave him short for winter.

Bobby is kindhearted—more than he looks, anyway—but he tends to draw the line at self-preservation.

 John Winchester, for his part, makes a point of purchasing only enough food for Sam's wedding and a few guests—no more. Lawrence can't afford a large celebration right now. It might not be able to afford one for a long time. A wedding needs food and drink, but John is careful in what and how much he buys. Jessica also demands that all the food be distributed for free at the _Hound and Whip_ —a stipulation that Sam and John happily accede to.

These preparations push the wedding back a few weeks, initially. Then a few months, because of the expense required on the Winchesters' part to help repair the town's millwheel,which remains broken no matter how many attempts are made to fix it.

It's getting on in autumn before the final banns are published and the wedding date is set. Though Jessica shows some impatience as August waxes toward September, for the most part she and Sam take matters in stride. The needs of the town come first.

The only Winchester that makes almost no appearance in town whatsoever during this time is Adam. While he usually spends a few hours with Sam at the clerk's office, he starts going less and less often; Bobby can scarcely recall the last time he met Adam while he was walking through town. While Bobby thinks this curious, he doesn't consider it a cause for alarm. The Winchesters are busy trying to keep both themselves and the town afloat.

The Singers had tried to do that, once. And failed.

Like Adam, Sam starts acting a bit odd. When he comes back from the woods after Dean's disappearance, he's jumpy; he insists that Bobby make as many hex bags as he can of a very specific, though simple, recipe. In the end the limiting factors for him had been cloth, and time. As summer wanes and winter becomes visible in his mind's eye, he puts off making more hex bags for Sam—though he already has several dozen before he slows production of them. The kid hadn't told him what he needed them for, but it doesn't take a genius to guess: Sam is still trying to save Dean.

Consequently, Sam also starts spending an unusual amount of time away from home—and his fiancée, which can't make her very happy. Jessica never complains—though privately, Bobby believes she should. Karen had spoken up whenever she'd felt the need, and if he'd listened to her more often—well, she might still be here.

Thoughts like this always intrude when Bobby prepares for weddings. For most of his life, he had privately considered love a mechanism utilized and codified by the strong in order to control the weak—certainly, that was how his brutal father had manipulated the concept. Then Bobby had met Karen, and she hadn't cared if he loved her or not; she had only cared how he treated her. From that Bobby had learned that love was real—not just flowers and gifts and control around sex.

And from losing Karen and adopting John's two boys—for however short a time—he had learned that love is, essentially, pain.

For this reason, he hates marriages. And christenings. While he doesn't believe his own bitter aloneness is the only way to go through life, he doesn't like the idea of others coming to his own understanding of reality. That understanding cuts too deep. Bobby drinks to numb that pain—no other.

Though Bobby despises weddings, he does make the effort for Sam's. Rummaging through his parents' old closet, he finds an old suit that's not too moth-eaten; seamstress Jody restores it to something that looks far too good for him. When she hands his suit back in a pretty wooden box, she's smiling, one dimple deeper than the other. "Well, well, Mr. Singer," she says. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Bobby feels a slow flush creep into his cheeks, but he knows from personal experience that his embarrassment doesn't show. Jody has been flirting with him for years, but it's all pretense and they both know it. When Bobby had found her with a blond out-of-towner behind a barn some ten years back, she had sworn Bobby to secrecy—and he had kept her secret.

The blond out-of-towner he'd caught Jody with— _en flagrante_ , to both their chagrins—had been a woman.

This town doesn't do well with anything too far out of the ordinary, and even Bobby thinks that kind of attraction strange. But he doesn't think it harmful; Jody was and is a good woman and doesn't deserve priests and hunters knocking down her door because she's different.

Bobby goes home to dress, and is frustrated—for the first time in a long time—that he has no mirror to check himself. He's poised on the threshold, in between coming and going, frozen with nerves and the idea that he looks ridiculous. Then Garth walks in, calm as you please in his own Sunday best—which looks considerably more threadbare than Bobby's clothing.

Something loosens in Bobby's chest, and he claps Garth on the shoulder. He tucks a handkerchief into Garth's front pocket in an effort to make him appear a touch more presentable, and they walk to church together like old friends—though Garth keeps his usual four-foot distance.

The distance between them is habitual; Bobby's witnessed it before. But today it bothers him. He's going to a wedding with his apprentice, and while he knows most of the people in town there aren't many he cares to talk to. He feels like Garth is pulling against a tether: stuck near him, but wanting to get away. "Something on your mind, son?" Bobby asks to break the silence.

"No, nothing," Garth says, but he looks like he's swallowed his tongue.

"You sure?"

Garth nods, one eye twitching nervously.

"You don't need to stick around me at the wedding, y'know," Bobby says. "If ya wanna go and get drunk with Sam n' Dean…"

He stops.

Dean.

Shit, that's why Garth's nervous.

Like Bobby, Garth knows almost everyone in town. Unlike Bobby, his affable demeanor and bachelorhood make him a target for every spinster in town—as well as some of the younger women that wouldn't mind having a butcher for a husband. This last would doubtless be amplified by the fact of the food shortage.

"On second thought," Bobby says, "maybe you should stick by me after all."

Garth smiles, baring crooked teeth, and the gap between them shrinks so that they're almost holding hands.

The church is filling up as they arrive. By good luck, Sam the giant bumps into Bobby as he passes, and the groom himself guides them to a front pew. Gordon Walker gives him the hook 'em horns sign, a curse, and Bobby rolls his eyes. Though he trusts the efficacy of Christian spells against more sinister witchcraft, he has no belief at all in that kind of superstitious nonsense. Privately, Bobby doesn't believe there's actually a God—but, like Jody, he keeps that secret. Differences of opinion like that aren't tolerated in Lawrence.

Garth settles awkwardly in the pew next to Bobby, a tangle of too-long limbs he'd never really grown into, and the better-proportioned (though just as tall) Sam runs off to attend to the final preparations with Lawrence's priest, Father Jim.

Because they're in the front pew, they're close to the rest of Winchester family. John is absent—likely helping Sam—but Kate and Adam are directly behind them. While Garth twitches and keeps a lookout for marriage-happy potential mothers-in-law, Bobby sits up straight in his hard, uncomfortable seat and, without quite meaning to, eavesdrops on Kate's conversation with her favored son.

"I need new shoes," Kate complains in a haughty tone.

Bobby looks down and sees the tops of the shoes she's complaining about. He thinks that they're gaudy—made with gold thread and leather—and he sees nothing wrong with them, at least from this angle.

Adam mutters something that is probably supposed to be soothing, but his words don't have any effect; Kate's voice stakes on a strident note as she insists, "My toes are poking out!"

 "What do you want me to do about it, then?" Adam asks, sounding bored.

"Find someone to fix it!"

"Um." Adam sounds uncertain, and Bobby's tempted to turn around and help the poor boy, but then he'd be leaving Garth to his own devices, which was rarely a good idea in public. The decision is taken out of Bobby's hands when he feels someone tug at the shoulder of his newly pressed suit.

Bobby turns around quickly, seeing Adam's sheepish expression. "Excuse me, sir, but aren't you a tanner?"

"Not exactly, though I tan hide from time to time."

 "But you know where to find good leather? My mother needs some for her shoes."

"Sure," Bobby says, and makes a mental list of all the cobblers in town he'd recommend. All their suppliers were the same, at least in terms of quality.

Before he could make any recommendations at all, though, Kate cut in again. "Why can’t you fix it?" she whines, clapping her feet on the stone.

"Well, m'am, I'm a butcher, not a tanner," Bobby says with as much politeness as he can stomach. He remembers, with a shock, his own mother's personality turn after losing everything.

_God is gonna punish you._

He shakes his head. The town is stretched thin and short of food. That's all this problem is. Snapping at Kate won't improve matters. He rattles off a list of the better tanners in town, which seems to satisfy her—she shuts up, at least. Then the clunky organ creaks to life, playing the wedding march from _Lohengrin._ Bobby snorts. The wedding in that opera had hardly ended well. Karen—who had always loved music, especially the new styles—had liked poking fun at the song.

He's going to be thinking about Karen a lot today. He should probably just accept that, but every time the thought of her comes screaming to the fore, it hurts. He blinks roughly and turns to watch Jessica, in a becoming white dress that does a stellar job at hiding her condition, descend the dusty old church aisle. His eyes flick to Sam; the poor boy clearly has his heart in his throat. John Winchester has opted to fall asleep. Kate mutters something about the expense of Jessica's gown, and Adam hushes her.

Yep. Bobby hates weddings.

Garth watches the ceremony with the kind of rapt attention he typically devotes to particularly fine cuts of meat. Bobby is reminded of nothing so much as a dog, and he wonders why some of that focused attention couldn’t spill over to his work, sometime. Bobby figures the attention is due to a desire for distraction; it's not like he wants to be roped into conversation with anyone.

Sam and Jessica opt for traditional vows, which isn't entirely surprising; Bobby's heard them a hundred times before. Father Jim takes Sam by the hand and says in a voice that carries to the rafters, "Samuel Winchester, do you take Jessica Moore to be your wedded wife, to live together in marriage?  Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as you both shall live?"

Sam freezes for a moment, and Bobby's worried that the poor kid lost the thread of the question. It's a long-ass question. He'd opted to write his vows to Karen himself. A moment passes, and Sam shakes his head up and down. "I do."

Father Jim takes Jessica's hand in his free one and asks her, "Jessica Moore, do you take Samuel Winchester to be your wedded husband to live together in marriage?  Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Jessica says without hesitation.

As the Father makes the final pronouncement of their marriage, Bobby realizes that the Father has taken "obey" out of Jessica's wedding vows. "Honor" fits better in any case, and Bobby had always hated that petty little word. His father had loved it. Karen had never been under any obligation to obey him, and he had preferred it that way.

Sam kisses Jessica hastily, but at least he doesn't miss—a likely issue, given the difference in their heights. Jessica smiles her bright, enchanting smile, and the congregation rises to cheer. Garth stands and claps louder than everyone. Bobby claps politely, focusing most of his attention on Sam.

The smile he's plastered on is clearly a fake one, for Jessica's benefit. John's drunkenness, Kate's rudeness, Adam's ducking behavior—all are emblematic of the same thing. Dean's gone. If he were here, he'd have worked some magic to calm Sam the fuck down. He would have hidden his daddy's liquor. He would have placated the Milligan-Winchesters with a new trinket from the merchant wagons or a new book from the city to keep them occupied on themselves, so they wouldn't distract from Sam's big moment.

But Dean's never going to be there again. With the same uneasy certainty Bobby believes there's no God, he believes that Dean is dead—or good as. He sees something like hopelessness in Sam's eyes and makes a point to get him alone later. Hollow looks like that don't bode well for long and happy lives.

The reception is being held at the _Hound and Whip,_ not because it's the best place in town but because it's accessible to most: Jessica had insisted on sharing their wedding feast with all the town's people.

Sam and Jessica are sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the table for the family, and Ash plies them with plenty of free beer and cheap but filling food. In due course, Sam and Jessica are sending glowing smiles at one another, and Jessica hold's Sam's hand through dinner. When John begins sweating his drink through his pores, Bobby removes him from the family table to the bar and orders Ash to give the man water and nothing else.

 The entire town, seemingly, drifts in and out throughout the day: John had paid Ash enough for nearly everyone in town to get a free meal, and while there are some grumblers present, most had the sense to be grateful. As Sam polishes off a large serving of salted cod, he sighs. Jessica squeezes his hand on the table and asks him what's the matter.

He says, "I wish Dean were here."

Bobby's head snaps up, but it seems most of the table has let the comment pass unremarked. He's about to toss Sam some vague platitude about gratitude—this is not the time or place to grieve, because—

"Be grateful you have the rest of your family here with you," Kate snaps, and gestures for one of Ash's helpers to pour her another glass of wine.

A woman at the bar asks, "Who is Dean?"

"My brother," Sam says.

"Oh." The woman's forehead creases. "Is he missing?"

Sam nods imperceptibly, and Bobby fervently wishes the kid hadn't said anything. Why didn't kids just go home and get this shit out in private? Bobby realizes he is exacting his father's standards for emotional expression on Sam, and quickly snaps himself out of it.

Before Bobby can do anything, Adam reaches out a tentative hand and claps it to Sam's shoulder. His expression is empty of empathy, but at least he's trying to do the right thing. Maybe, Bobby thinks, he'd been wrong about Adam.

Sam leans into the touch, and Jessica offers him a sad smile. She makes to get up, and Sam joins her in the center of the tavern, where a clarinetist and cellist have taken up spaces to play. The clarinet starts a polka rhythm that the cellist enhances, and more people get up to dance. Bobby realizes his toe is tapping, but he doesn't get up; his eyes flick to Garth to make sure the damn kid is all right.

Garth has been cornered by Ruby McCloud, of all people, and he doesn't look very uncomfortable—there's little chance Ruby would be interested in seducing Garth. Bobby knows Ruby hadn't been invited to the wedding, but it probably didn't matter—Jessica wouldn't have agreed to sending anyone away. While Sam and Jessica dance, Bobby extricates Garth from her clutches.

"Sorry," Garth says as he backs away from her. "Headache."

 Bobby walks him to the door and out, hoping to protect him from the vulture-like women that desire Garth to marry them—even though Garth doesn't really seem the sort to marry anyone. Bobby realizes that it's gotten somewhat late; the sky is purple and the sun is going down. "Drink plenty of water when you get home, y'hear? I expect you at work tomorrow at the usual time."

Garth nods nervously, eyes flicking back and forth. "I'll be there, Bobby."

"I'm sure you will," Bobby says. "G'night."

The air inside seems thicker than it had outside; more men and a few women have lit up smokes. Bobby finds Ruby McCloud again and asks her, in no uncertain terms, why she'd decided to turn wedding crasher.

"C'mon, Mr. Singer," Ruby says in a voice smooth as oil. Her dress is black and tight, and Bobby knows there's a parallel to be drawn there, but he's not going to fall into so obvious a trap. "Can't a girl have some fun in this miserable town?"

"So this is fun for you, is it?"

Ruby plucks up her cigarette holder and takes a long draw. "Beats the shit outta staying at home with dad. He's so burned up he might never walk again, but he talks our ears off. I was hoping little Sammy would save me from all that, but alas," she says, fluttering her eyelashes like a coquette, "I need to find another option."

"Well, there's no need to do that here," Bobby says.

Ruby's forehead creases in a tiny frown. "Mind your own business, Mr. Singer." She takes another draw from her cigarette, then turns to face the bar fully, her squared shoulders an indication that their conversation is over.

Which is fine by Bobby—but he has a nagging suspicion that she's not here for any good reason. He keeps one eye on her as he finds Sam in the corner near the bar, still holding Jessica's hand. He's flushed and out of breath from dancing.

"Had a few too many, Sam?"

Sam grins, all teeth, but Jessica looks concerned. "He's had too much," she says. "I'm trying to get him home, but—"

Bobby looks more closely at Sam, and sees that he is swaying on his feet. Jessica would have no chance moving that much drunken muscle in a straight line. "All right," Bobby drawls. "Let me help you get him out of here."

Jessica shoots him a grateful look, and each of them hook one of Sam's shoulders. He lurches forward, unsteady but able to keep his feet. Bobby grunts; the kid weighs much more at twenty than at one. On the way out, he hails Ash and asks that he see John home before closing, and Ash gives him a reassuring nod.

Bobby and Jessica pull Sam home in fits and starts, frequently stopping for breaks. When Jessica tires of thanking him for the help, he shifts the conversation to her plans. "So," he says in what he hopes is a conversational way, "got any plans now that you're all moved in?"

Jessica doesn't answer immediately, and Bobby's about to retract the question when she says, "I think Sam's going to get Dean back. So I'll probably help him with that."

Sam mutters something unintelligible that sounds vaguely like negation.

"It seems Sam disagrees."

"Well," Jessica says, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, "he's unhappy without him, and Dean's a good person. I want to help him, whether Sam wants me to or not." She pokes Sam in the ribs, and he yelps before collapsing a little further into the hold of the two people holding him up.

"Kind of you," Bobby says. Unusually kind. Of course, Sam wouldn't have picked a conniving bitch, but he hadn't expected him to pick a saint, either. So much of Jessica is still mysterious; she's the only woman Bobby knows more than passingly that wasn't born and raised in Lawrence. "What about your family?"

"They're planning to visit," she says. "But they live a few hundred miles from here, mostly, so we're planning to see them around Christmas."

"And what about your child?"

Jessica gives him a look that could peel paint at a hundred yards. "I'll deal with that when I have to," she says coldly. "Not right now."

"Sorry," Bobby says, and he is. Apparently his impression of Jessica in the church that day had been false: she's plenty capable of speaking her mind when she feels the need. Bobby's glad of it. "That was rude of me. I worry about you kids in that house with just John…" He trails off.

Jessica offers him a sweet smile like forgiveness. "Well, Adam's there, too. And Kate."

Bobby just shakes his head. "May God help you all." If God exists. Which Bobby seriously, seriously doubts. 

***

Bobby and Jessica make it to the house without mishap and clamber clumsily up the house steps with Sam still suspended between them. While Jessica goes to her room to dress for bed, Bobby gets Sam situated in his own room. He wonders, briefly, where Jessica will sleep tonight, but that's really not any of his damn business.

Sam is fairly zonked from drinking, and Bobby thinks he's passed out. When he makes to rise, Sam's eyes flutter open, and he reaches fumblingly for Bobby in the dark. Bobby catches his hand and resettles it at his side. "It's all right, Sam," he says. "Just me. Jessica's in the other room. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible." Sam sits up, wincing as he does, and Bobby knows he'll have a helluva hangover tomorrow. "Why did you walk me home?"

"Me and your wife both. And you didn't exactly give us a choice—it didn't look like you could move on your own."

Sam nods. "Thanks. To you both."

Bobby listens, and hears Jessica's soft footsteps in the room down the hall. "And how do you feel about being married?"

Sam smiles, but the warmth in his grin doesn't reach his eyes. "I love her, you know? I do. But it feels wrong, somehow, celebrating without Dean." He closes his eyes and takes a deep, deliberate breath. "And the town's short on food, and we can't spare anything, and—"

Bobby holds up one finger. "It's still your wedding day. Worry tomorrow."

Sam nods tightly, but there are tears in his eyes. Bobby pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and he gasps, but lacks either the coordination or the heart to push Bobby off.

Bobby releases him after a moment, and Sam's eyes light up as if he's gone sober in an instant. "Actually there's something you can help me with." He fumbles for his belt, and Bobby is about to protest in no uncertain terms—but Sam's not undressing. There's something caught in his belt. He extricates it and hands it over to Bobby clumsily. "I took this from Adam," he says before Bobby can get a good look at the thing. "He took it from dad. Whatever's in the woods—whatever's got Dean—this belongs to them."

The light is poor in here; there's a gas lamp in the corner near the end of its fuel, but nothing else. Bobby attempts to determine what it is by the feel. The long tubing and handle tell him it's a gun, but the raised markings and designs he can feel (but not read) are likely more significant than the weapon itself.

Bobby gives Sam a reassuring nod. "I'll look into it tomorrow. Get some sleep now."

"Yes, Bobby," Sam says in a slightly grouchy tone. But he pulls the duvet cover up to his shoulders and turns to his side without protest. Bobby puts out the lamp and says a cursory goodbye to Jessica before heading downstairs.

As he descends the staircase, he hears the sound of the door closing below him. Is someone home?

Not John; he wouldn't have been able to stagger back so soon. Adam, then. Or Kate.

Bobby almost calls a greeting in the dark, but something stops him. He makes his way down the stairs as unobtrusively as possible. Outside, he catches a glimpse of a shadow to his left. Unthinkingly, his feet follow the movement. He's got the gun Sam gave him in his hand, and going by feel he opens the gun to see if it's loaded.

It is, but there's only one bullet.

Well, he's gone into more dangerous situations with less. And the more he thinks about what Sam told him, the more confused he gets. He understands John bringing home the weapon—that sounds exactly like something John Winchester would do. He doesn't understand why Adam would take it, though, or why Sam would take it from Adam. He hopes the blasted thing isn't some cursed object, but he can't check that until he gets home.

The smudged shadow Bobby's following starts slowing down behind the Walker ranch. Bobby realizes they must be headed toward the birch grove where Gordon waters his cattle; there's nothing else nearby for miles. Whoever he's following is taking a rather circuitous route, though, and Bobby decides he'll cut his guide off and arrive first.

If Gordon catches Bobby on his lands, there'll be trouble. Bobby doesn't really mind.

The moon rises high and full and clear, providing him a little more light. He reaches the watering pond in a few minutes—and is surprised to see he's not alone.

A woman sits at the edge of the pond, her toes dipping into the water. While he doesn't recognize her face from here, he sees that her hair is black or very dark brown; her clothing also appears dun-colored. Her white feet and face are the only things that draw any attention to her appearance in the darkness.

Bobby hears twigs snapping and bird fluttering behind him and works to make himself small. The person he'd pursued walks past him in the dark, oblivious to his presence; up close, Bobby can see that it's Adam.

"You're here," the woman at the pond says. "Took you long enough."

Bobby swallows. Adam's meeting Ruby—why?

"Sorry. Had to make sure I wasn't followed."

"Ah," Ruby says, splashing her feet a little in the water. "I take it you have it?"

"No," Adam says. "Sam found it and took it."

The gun in Bobby's hand feels like a burning target. He wants to get out of here, but they'd almost certainly hear him; he needs to wait until the moon starts setting at least.

"Fuck," Ruby says. "You know he'll be pissed."

Adam nods and plops next to Ruby, though he keeps a little back from the pond. "I know. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry. I'll steal it back tonight. Sam's so drunk he won't remember what happened to it."

Ruby stands up, water droplets scattering from her feet and the hem of her dress. "You do that," she says. "And meet me here tomorrow. Winter solstice is in two months. We need to be ready."

Huh. Bobby had always suspected that Ruby was a witch—the Crowleys' run of luck over the Singers could scarcely be explained by anything but witchcraft—but he'd never caught her in the act. It's true that the solstices and equinoxes usually bring witches out of the woodwork: the veil between the living and the dead is thought to be weakest then.

The good news is he has some time to figure out what Ruby and Adam are plotting, though he would rather deal with the immediate problem: Ruby being a witch, and Adam consorting with one. In Bobby's mind, the only good witch is a dead witch. He'd only ever met one that was decent, and that one's end had been chaotic, fiery: a killing by his own kind.

The right thing to do would be to call Ruby out in the center of town, and try her as the witch she was. Tempted as he is to do that, he knows that won't work. He had once attempted to bring charges against Crowley himself, and the result had been the ruin of his family.

Bobby grips the gun Sam had given him tightly in his hand. They need it for their plan. If he keeps it, they won't get it. Ruby and Adam get up to leave, each in the direction of their homes, and Bobby waits until the sounds of their footsteps recede before sneaking off Gordon's land and returning to his own.

Tomorrow, he can think about how to stop them.

Tonight, he's content with Sam having foiled their plan.

The gun gleams dully in the moonlight, and Bobby spots a pentagram carved on the handle. He takes it as a good omen.


	24. Greenhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why this fluffy piece of fluffiness demanded to be written, but it did, and I have no idea what to think of it. I'm blaming Halloween.

When Dean wakes the next morning, the sun's in his eyes, belying the storm the previous night. It's bright as Hell; light so intense it hurts his eyes, and he flips onto his back and blinks over and over again to adjust his vision. He looks up and sees glass—panes upon leaded panes attached to one another in hexagonal patterns that break outward from the center of the ceiling toward the walls of this place. Light is endlessly refracted in rainbows, jumping from pane to pane—and to the ground, moving in circles. It makes him dizzy to track the light, so he closes his eyes and stands up, not entirely believing that what's around him his real.

His feet are cold; he sees a faint mist gathering around them as he moves, reflecting dozens of the tiny rainbows from the ceiling. It's like waking up at dawn at a campsite, dew soaking through his boots. He shivers.

Instead of focusing on what this place is, exactly—or on whether it exists—Dean decides to figure out what it's for. The answer to that question is quite obvious: all along the glass walls cling hundreds of climbing, twisted roses. In plots lining the interior space, so perfectly aligned he could have taken a straightedge and not found a single line crooked, there are more plants, some flowering, some not. He takes a few hesitant steps toward the first plot and identifies hydrangeas, no longer blooming. Lilies. Red-and-pink pansies with their tongues sticking out. Among the living plants are months' worth of dead vegetation, clogging the growth; Dean's amazed the dead stuff doesn't stick out from the clear, clean lines of the plots. He figures something—someone?—must cut it back.

The row he starts on is all flowers, but the next set of plots are more pragmatic: zucchini. Spinach. Carrots. Potatoes. All healthy. All growing—though some truncated by the mass of dead plants permitted to grow over and around them. Not everything is in season, and most of it is unripe, but there's enough for him to make a few raw meals. He realizes he's standing in a greenhouse, and that calms him. He's never seen one with his own eyes, but his mother had told him about them. They're used to keep exotic plants alive in winter—or merely to grow plants better, in some places.

The next set of plots is taken up by gnarled and twisting berry bushes; the blackberries and raspberries appear to be duking it out, though he finds one unmangled strawberry bush, and (from the taste) a lingonberry bush.

The final long line of plots is taken up with herbs, though the mint has clearly gone to seed and staged a coup. He gets to his knees to weed automatically and stops himself. This place is—wrong. No one could make everything in here grow in the middle of winter. Hell, they couldn't get it all to grow when everything was properly in season. This place is miraculously _alive_ —made more so, somehow, by how dead everything outside is.

Though his feet are cold, Dean's otherwise warm; the place is clearly heated by something, but aside from the sun he finds no other heat source. The climbing roses surrounding everything are probably the most beautiful thing he's ever seen—more radiantly, transcendentally amazing than his mother's smile, or Sam's laugh.

"What is this place?" he finally asks aloud.

"A greenhouse," the demon answers, and Dean yelps, pitching forward into a bed of mint. He hadn't expected an answer, and he's kind of creeped out by the idea that the demon's been watching him this whole time. He's close to the glass of the outside wall now, and he's worried about damaging it. He didn't break it by pitching forward, but some of the cold from outside seeps in through the soldered joins, making him shiver.

"What happened to, 'Hello, Dean'?"

A pause. "Hello, Dean."

Dean takes a deep breath and attempts to remain calm. "I know this is a greenhouse," he says. "Why is it here?"

"I knew a gardener and built it for them."

The demon had built it? "I didn't know demons were so charitable."

"I wasn't a demon then," the demon replies. "Besides, he did me a favor."

Dean sighs. Questioning the demon rarely gets him anywhere. "Who maintains all this?"

"I do," the demon answers, "though it's somewhat difficult without hands. The mint gets absolutely everywhere."

"That's why you build them their own space and put a pot or a wall around it," Dean says. "I guess your gardener friend didn't think of that?"

"No. I suppose he didn't."

The silence following this statement stretches out, and Dean starts picking idly at the mint, its pungent aroma sticking to his hands. "I had a garden. Back home." He flicks a mint leaf toward the glass wall. "Not this big, or this huge, but. Yeah."

"Do you miss it?"

Dean considers his hungry days and nights; times when the demon had forgotten to bring him food, the cold snap happening before his grain could grow. He'd kill for a burger, but he doubts he'll find cows growing wild. "Yeah," he says. If he'd been able to transplant his garden here, he would have had more than enough for winter. "I had a lot of spinach. Some potatoes. Herbs."

"And flowers?"

The question is unexpected. "No. Why?"

"Nothing," the demon answers quickly—a bit too quickly. "Something my gardener friend said."

"And what was that?"

"What is a garden without flowers?"

Dean shrugs. Clearly, gardens can exist without flowers. "My mom liked them," he mumbled, then bit his tongue. He should not be talking to the demon about things like that.

"She was a gardener?"

"Yeah," he says. "Was."

The demon says nothing for a full minute. "Anyone there?" Dean asks. No answer.

Figures.

When it's been quiet for at least ten minutes, Dean releases a pent-up breath and lets his shoulders collapse. Talking to the demon is nerve-wracking, but not in the same way it was when they'd first met. They had just spent several civil minutes discussing plants—and the demon's friend. And his freaking _mother_. He hadn't been scared of the thing at all, after its initial panic-inducing appearance.

Maybe it's trying to lull him into a false sense of security. That would fit, somewhat, with the rest of its aberrant behavior. Dean decides he must remain vigilant—but it's hard to force vigilance against an enemy that's made no threat to him. It goes against his code. Once, he and Sam had found a vampire nest where all the members lived on cow blood and never harmed a human. Gordon Walker had wanted them destroyed, but Dean and Sam had helped them get away from Lawrence's hunters.

He has no interest in hunting something that's no threat.

He has to find out what happened to Jo. On that question, all of his other decisions depend. Even if he'd killed her while possessed by the demon—he needs to know.

 

***

 

Life in the greenhouse is somewhat easier than it had been in the stable. He's always warm, and thanks to the frequent snowfall there's always an abundant supply of fresh water just outside. The plants never need much maintenance to keep growing—the demon reveals an ingenious irrigation system that drips water directly to the plant roots, keeping the topsoil fairly dry. However, the backlog of growth gives him plenty to do.

The mint gives him a challenge the first week or so he spends in the greenhouse. While a winter gale bludgeons the magical outer walls, he uproots the big, interconnected mint family and hacks a fair bit off. When he replants, he does so with a foot-thick wall of chipped gravel gleaned from the path outside with his own semi-frozen hands. The mint grows back rapidly, but it's no longer choking the lavender, thyme, and chives.

Whenever he leaves the greenhouse for any great length of time, the demon refreshes food and water on a low table in the far left corner of the greenhouse, near where Dean sleeps. Why it does this is a topic they do not discuss, but it hangs over all their conversations together. Dean knows he should ask, but he feels like the question is a sore tooth: best not poked at.

They spend the first week like that, Dean tending the crops and uprooting dead plants while the demon hovers out of sight, mostly silent, replenishing supplies and generally feeding Dean's theory that it doesn't actually exist in physical reality.

The second week, Dean starts talking more regularly. He has nothing else to do, and is determined to resist a relapse of his former self-destructive behavior. If he cuts himself, or runs away, he could die. Go septic. Freeze. There's no help for him now except for what comes from the demon.

He figures out more about the demon—including its warped personality habits—in the course of living with it. At first it doesn't speak much, and he only hears from it during the day. It's when it starts talking at night that he gets his first real idea of what he's up against.

The night-demon is a chatty Cathy, when it bothers to make an appearance. The first time Dean talks to it in the greenhouse, he's just resettled the mint into his fortified home and is busy wiping the heavy dirt off his hands. He hears the tinkling of glass and hopes that he hasn't broken anything; when he turns, he hears the familiar command: "Don't turn around."

"Back to this again. Great." He stays very still. "Why can't I see you again?"

"I'll kill you."

"Like you killed Jo?"

Silence. Then, "Fucking asinine ass. Idiot."

Dean chuckles. "Descriptive. And what are you, exactly?"

"I'm a demon that's owed a soul. Stay out of my way and it might not be yours."

Dean had swallowed heavily at that, and had risked turning around. Predictably, he had seen nothing. When he asks the demon about the encounter the next day, the demon brushes the matter off. "I told you I would kill you if you saw me," it says in an even tone nothing like the playful mockery of the previous night.

It doesn't take Dean long to figure out the pattern. The demon at night wants him to look. The demon in the daytime doesn't. The demon at night mocks and taunts him—its voice is generally louder, as if it is standing closer to him. The demon during the day asks him about his brother.

Their voices are similar, but he would bet even money that they aren't the same. Though they do have shared experiential knowledge, their attitudes toward Dean couldn't be more different. He considers that he's more self-hating at night, but that backfires; he's self-hating enough all the time. Otherwise he wouldn't have done something as idiotic as sacrifice himself without asking for Sam and Bobby's help first.

Dean doesn't spend that much time in self-examination, preferring to free the greenhouse crops from their long burial beneath their dead kindred. The end of his first month in the greenhouse sees Dean's first crop of potatoes ripening: he'd cleared that plot second, and they'd bounced back with a rapidity that surprises even him. He goes to bed looking forward to eating one for dinner the next day. The demon's food had been fine and all—and technically the potato is still the demon's food—but Dean had weeded and taken care of that plot, removing dead growth and weeds by the armload. He should be able to enjoy the fruits of his labors.

The next morning, though, all of the potatoes had been uprooted. Uprooted rather dramatically. He looks for the entire morning and finds a single potato that is unsmashed and suitable for consumption. He's sitting, contemplating this potato, when he hears the familiar salutation: "Hello, Dean."

"Hello, demon," he answers acerbically. "Any reason why you decided to destroy all the damn potatoes?"

A pause. "It appears not all of them were destroyed."

"You know what I mean."

"I do," the demon answers. "The demon did that last night, for reasons I'm not sure of. I think he thought they made you happy."

"He's a dick."

"Yes."

"You're a dick."

No answer.

Dean sighs. "Sorry," he says. He hadn't realized it until now, but growing potatoes, of all things, had reminded him strongly of being home. It had been an anchor point in this terrible winter, in this terrible place. It's a tiny thing, potatoes—but one the demon had exploited. But the day-demon doesn't deserve his insults; the night-demon had done this. "Rotten night, I guess."

"Quite."

That admission makes Dean's shoulders collapse in; he relaxes despite himself. He realizes that, privately, he's been splitting the demon into the 'good one' and the 'bad one'—the good one, that's interested in his mother and his life and the garden; and the bad one that taunts and insults him and had destroyed his first crop of potatoes. He knows he should trust the demon less than he does, but the good one, at least, has given him no reason to be afraid of it—and the other one only comes out at night.

This kind of thinking is dangerous, because it makes the unfounded assumption that the demon is real. If his theory is right, he'd uprooted the potatoes himself because of some strange self-sabotaging behavior fed by demonic possession. Which…isn't entirely out of character. Damn it.

And while Dean will probably never trust the demon, they've been sharing close quarters peaceably, and that means something—though he's not entirely sure what. On the surface, it looks like the demon doesn't want to kill him. He might be able to work with that—if it allows him to get away.

When he starts thinking of the demon, consistently, as a 'he' instead of an 'it,' he starts to worry.

The first time he's aware of the change, he's working through the blackberry bushes, getting stung by prickly growth at every moment. The demon appears, as it frequently does, and greets him with its by-now rote "Hello, Dean." Then—something changes.

Dean, surprised again, slips and falls face-first into the bushes.

The demon laughs—but it's not the mocking laughter of the bad one. It's—chuckling. Like a person would. Kind of like Sam would in a good mood.

Dean curses under his breath and attempts, unsuccessfully, to free himself from the blackberry thorns. He feels his shirt rip and a tugging at his waistband where the briars have caught him. He's thoroughly stuck. When he brings up his hands for balance, he sees that both of them are bleeding. Dean pauses in his stream of curses to address the demon: "You shouldn't laugh at the suffering of others."

"I'm sorry," the demon says, recovering itself. "You look like you need help."

"You offering?" It's out before he can think, and he expects immediate denial. When it doesn't come, he swallows. "Can you help me?"

"Maybe," the demon says. "But you have to close your eyes."

"Right," Dean says. "The not seeing you thing." He thinks for a moment—but only a moment. He's been trying to get tangible evidence of the demon's existence since coming here, and the demon's offering that on a plate. "Okay." Dean closes his eyes. "I won't look."

There's a stretch of time that feels longer than it is; Dean feels thorns sticking into his skin, blood trickling down his leg. He smells the earthy smell of the garden, comforting. He knows he should be scared, but he's not. This is an experiment. He has no reason to think he'll be harmed—more than he already is, anyway.

Then something velvet-soft and smooth-textured ghosts across the skin of his shoulder where his shirt has ripped, and he gasps.

"Relax," the demon says. "I've got you."

Extrication is surprisingly gentle. The demon wraps what Dean presumes to be a fuzzed limb—fur? Feathers?—beneath his arms and lifts up. The thorns resist the movement somewhat, but let go after a few tugs. Then Dean's being set on his feet; as soon as he's down, his eyes snap open—now that he's back on solid ground, he's determined to see this thing.

It isn't there.

"God damn it," Dean says, "where the fuck are you?"

"Hiding, I believe you call it."

"Shit. I hate this."

"Hate what?"

"This cat-and-mouse game you've got going. You haven't told me everything, I know it. I can't escape—not in the middle of winter, not with the fire and the gate—you know that. So you're keeping me here. I don't know why, there's no way out, and I can't see you. Is this some form of mental torture?"

"Perhaps," the demon says, "but I don't intend it as one."

Dean snorts.

Abruptly, the demon changes the subject. "You've done nicely with the garden."

Dean's taken aback, and he's tempted to press the demon for answers again, but that never seems to get him anywhere. "Uh, thanks," he mutters.

"But you haven't touched the flowers."

Dean frowns. "No." He's been avoiding those. It can't be a coincidence that all his mother's favorites are in here. If the demon's not playing deliberate mind games, then there are a hell of a lot of coincidences to account for. "I—mom liked flowers. I told you that."

"But you don't?"

"I did," he says. "Not anymore. She died in a fire."

"The forest fire that gutted Lawrence. I remember."

Dean thinks about that for a moment. "How long have you been here?"

"Me? I'm not sure. Decades, at least."

"How old are you?"

"I—actually, I don't know anymore." The demon sounds somewhat pained. Dean runs the revelation that demons aren't beholden to time through his head. He's never heard of someone being possessed by the same demon for decades. And that's not the sort of lie that he would make up and tell himself. It's what Sam might call an anomalous detail—if the demon's in his head, it's not using his memories or knowledge of demons. Dean might finally be asking the right kind of questions.

That's good, as far as evidence goes. But he wants more.

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what? Become possessed?"

"Yeah."

"Hm." The demon pauses. "My friends were in trouble. I could save them, maybe. Maybe only temporarily, but still. I chose to do that. Instead of letting everyone die."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone in Lawrence." The demon's voice is tremulous, shaky.

Dean takes a deep breath. He reminds himself that demons lie—no matter how truthful they may sound, how world-weary, how wretched—but the reminder rings as hollow as a drum. "You're an…unusual demon."

"Well, I'm only halfway a demon, really."

Dean almost suspects he was trying to be funny with that one.

And—there it was. He. Not it.

For just a second, Dean forgets he's talking to a demon, and believes, for the briefest of moments, that he's talking to a person. Maybe even a decent person: someone willing to tell the details of their life without any obvious desire for reciprocation. "I don't like flowers because my mom promised me something."

"Oh?" The prompt, like the impromptu rescue, is gentle; not pushing.

"I was four. She said she'd make flowers sing." He scuffs his foot against the ground. "And I can't look at them without remembering."

"Hm," the demon replies. "But it would be a shame to leave them like that, with the rest of the plots cleaned up."

Dean nods. "Yeah, but…" He can't work on flowers. He can't. "Why am I talking to you about this shit, anyway?"

"I would hardly call it shit," the demon answers. "And it's not like you have anyone else to talk to."

"Fair enough." Dean sighs. "Assuming you're here."

"You doubting my existence is somewhat amusing, but also facetious."

"What?"

"What purpose does it serve to think that I don't exist?"

"Well, they say seeing is believing…"

"That's foolish," the demon says. "You can hear me. I had to touch you to pull you out of that bush. What more evidence do you need?"

Dean nods, knowing the demon's likely close enough to see him. "But you could be making me believe you did all that. If you're possessing me. I could have fallen in the bushes and saved myself—with you making me think you saved me."

"Ah." The demon is quiet for a time, and Dean thinks he's been left alone. He moves to clean up some lingering potato mess when he hears, "It seems I will have to do something for you that you would not be capable of yourself. Something that is not reliant on your memory or capabilities."

"Why bother?"

"I feel we will get along better if we have fewer existential arguments."

"And you want to get along?"

"I prefer it."

"Huh." Dean shrugs. "Okay. Prove it."

Silence. This time, silence that lasts.

Typical. 

***

Over the next few days, the demon tries a number of different tactics to demonstrate his reality to Dean. He shares details of his life, details about Lawrence, but there's nothing there Dean doesn't already know. During one of these information-sharing sessions, Dean snorts, "You expect me to know you? Shit, dude, I don't even know your name."

"Don't be in such a hurry to find out," the demon says. His voice sounds close; Dean looks, as he always does, and sees nothing, as usual. "You'll give me a name, someday. I dread it."

"Dread?" Dean's face twitches in a frown. "Why? It's not like I don't know you're a demon. Half-demon. Whatever. What could be worse?"

"I can't answer that."

"Why?"

"To say my name is to summon the demon."

Dean nods. "Wait, I remember that. From my nightmare."

"Yes."

"You're that painter—or, pretending to be."

"I _was_ that painter, yes." The demon puts careful stress to the word.

Dean sighs. "I know I'm not allowed to see you." The demon had been permitted to fish him out of the blackberry bushes, so long as Dean's eyes had been closed. Dean recalls the physical sensations of being removed from the bushes quite well. "Let me touch you."

"No."

"Please? I promise not to look."

"I touched you already," the demon says. "How is this different?"

"It's self-directed—something I choose," he says, thinking aloud. "If the sensations match, you might be real. It's more evidence." More, though not conclusive. Dean pauses, and asks again, "Please? I have to know if you're real."

The lengthy pause does nothing to increase Dean's confidence in this situation. Then the demon says, "My name. You can have it—have it instead of—"

"What's your name?" Dean asks, and his tone is soft as he speaks over demon's stammering.

"My name is Castiel Milton."

***

"Milton," Dean says under his breath, and he asks, "do you know Zachariah Milton?"

Yes, Castiel realizes, he does. A distant cousin, much younger than him and something of a brat. He must have inherited the Milton estate, with Castiel…gone. "I know him," Castiel says. "But I have to go. The demon is coming."

He's scarcely out of the ceiling chute when Lucifer emerges, thoroughly pissed as ever, yet pleased that he gets most of a day and night to do as he pleases. Lucifer chooses to shun Dean and explore the perimeter again, as if he expects there to be a change. Castiel doesn't observe one, and Lucifer sulks by ripping their stomach open over and over again, watching it heal with an expression of disgust.

Castiel sees Dean again the next morning, and manages his normal greeting even though his abdomen is still bleeding and throbbing: he doesn't heal as fast as Lucifer does. Dean notices the tight tone and asks, "Something wrong?"

"No," Castiel replies. "Nothing."

_Such a good little liar, Cassie._

"Shut up," he mutters to Lucifer.

"You're talking to yourself again," Dean says.

"Sorry," Castiel replies. "I suppose I've gotten used to it."

"No need to apologize," he says. "I just want to make sure I'm taking to the right one, is all."

"It's me," he says, hoping Dean won't make him repeat the previous day's conversation. He has no desire to have Lucifer play cat's cradle with his innards all day again today.

"I can tell. I won't say your name," Dean says. "It's a mouthful anyway, and if the demon can use it to take you over I'd rather call you something else."

"Like what?"

Dean thinks for a moment. "Mind if I call you Cas?"

"Yes." Lucifer uses nicknames for him all the time; he'd rather not accumulate another.

"All right, then, that's settled."

"Dean—"

"Yeah, Cas?"

Castiel lets out a small huff of frustration. He is slow to realize it, but Lucifer has never called him Cas before, choosing to make his name sound feminine instead of shortening it. In that way, 'Cas' is appropriate.

 _Heh,_ Lucifer says in his mind. Cas. _I like it. Short and sweet, like the lapdog you are._

"No one asked you," he mutters.

Dean asks, "What?"

"'Cas' is—acceptable," Castiel says. "I—would rather not kill you."

"And I appreciate that," Dean says. "Incidentally, I still have no way of knowing whether you are real or just a figment of my imagination."

Not this again. "Flattery will get you nowhere," Castiel says, deadpan. He has already tried directness; it is time for a different tactic.

"I don't mean—" It's Dean's turn to huff. "I mean, talking to you is easy. I tell you things—things I haven't really talked to anyone about. It's almost like—we have a lot in common."

Castiel laughs—a harsh sound like metal, but it's all his beak and transmogrified vocal chords will allow. "Perhaps we do, but that doesn't mean I'm you. It seems I still haven't successfully demonstrated my reality to you."

Dean nods thoughtfully. "No, you really haven't." Castiel reflects that Dean is right about seeing him. People doubt their ears, their nose, their memories, but if they can see and touch something they know it's real. Of course, Castiel has been leaving things out for Dean—food, water, clothes, blankets—but apparently Dean finds it easy to believe that he is capable of raiding the house of some camper or other for supplies under the influence of Lucifer. Now that Castiel thinks of it in this way, he supposes it would be easy to explain away objects that appear and disappear suddenly, especially if he can't be aware of losing time.

Saving Dean from the bushes could also be explained as the work of possession.

Again, he needs another tactic. "I think I have an idea," Castiel says. He needs to accomplish something that would not be possible for a human without magic. Something with a physical demonstration that Dean would not be able to do for himself, under any circumstances. Tricky—but not impossible. "I'll work on it tonight. Goodbye, Dean."

"Wait," Dean says. "What's your plan?"

"If I tell you," he says, "you might not believe that I'm real when I do it."

"Fair enough," he says. "Good luck, Cas."

***

The next day marks the winter solstice: the longest night of the year, near the middle day of the winter season. The sun takes an age to come up, but when it does, the snow surrounding the greenhouse melts, and the air becomes so warm inside that Dean's tempted to remove his shirt. Outside, it's still cold, but not as bad as it's been, and Dean uses the break in the weather as an excuse to go for a walk.

As the snow melts, dangerous patches of black ice freeze and thaw; Dean has to pick his way carefully in order not to slip. The air feels warm, like spring come early, and when Dean finds the hedge on fire and uses it to keep direction, he feels positively balmy.

He walks most of the morning before starting to get tired. The house, more than half-ruined, is in sight before him; a little way ahead and to his left, the iron gate looms, wide and threatening. The gate provides the only gap in the fire he's seen, and it's shut in the way of all magical barriers: only magic might break it open.

When he passes the gate, there is a hideous creaking sound, like rusted nails moving over a chalkboard. Dean turns to look, and finds it open.

"Go," he hears from above. The demon's voice is soft, but it carries.

Dean looks up in the direction of the voice, but there's nothing there.

He wants to run through the gate to freedom, but his instincts warn him that there's something wrong here. In fact, this is exactly what a demon would do if it thought its dominion over him was complete: let him go to wreak havoc on the outside world.

And if the good one is behind this, well. Maybe he doesn't want to leave that one behind.

"If this is your proof," Dean says, pitching his voice to carry to the trees, "then I still don't believe you."

Instead of an answer, the iron jaws of the gate snap shut with a choked, scream-like sound. Dean sighs, turns, and returns to the greenhouse to get warm.


	25. Transfiguration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something unique about Panna a Netvor is that the beast changes back slowly instead of all at once. This is the beginning of my take on that.
> 
> Warnings for very temporary main character death.

Castiel—with Lucifer piloting—arrives back to his rain-lashed and storm-damaged home out of breath, bloody, and shaking. He hadn't killed Jo personally, but his body had done the deed, and the thought makes his skin crawl. He wants nothing more than to curl up outside in the rain and wait for it to wash him clean.

Lucifer has other ideas. He surveys the damage done to Castiel's home with an air of grim satisfaction, but it's clear he hadn't gotten what he wanted. They had tried the gate after Jo's death. It hadn't opened for Lucifer—and the fiery hedge is still intact. Whatever spell Lucifer had used had not yet opened the doors of his prison.

As this realization dawns, Lucifer sulks. "I swear I had it this time," he mutters. "Those idiots must have failed on the outside."

Castiel wants to ask which idiots Lucifer means, but he knows he won't get names. He can recognize faces and voices: people whom Lucifer has communed with in his witch bowls, but Lucifer knows better than to volunteer more information to Castiel than he has to. For his part, Castiel is relieved that Lucifer's spell failed.

Not all the consequences of that are positive. The house is mostly destroyed. Dean, if he's still out in the weakening storm and not dead of exposure, will need a new place to live. Castiel had promised to destroy Mary in addition to Jo—and Castiel is mindful of his promise to Lucifer.

As the sun rises the morning after the storm, he removes the portrait from his and Lucifer's shared room and burns it with his own magic, watching his work—and all hope of Mary's help—go up in smoke. The eyes of the painting glimmer in reproach or rage. Castiel is saddened to see it destroyed—as much for Mary's sake as for his own.

Burning the painting, though, takes care of his bargain to give Lucifer a soul. Theoretically, anyway. Castiel doubts that that Lucifer is interested in theoretical bargains. He probably isn't finished playing with either Castiel or Dean—yet.

Castiel spends most of his day by the river, avoiding Dean by staying farther upstream than usual. Because of this he doesn't even see Dean until late in the day—right before Lucifer is set to take over. He's tempted to send out a greeting, but he doesn't; it's too close to Lucifer's time, and he's not going to put Dean at risk.

While Dean removes his few salvageable possessions to the stable, Lucifer takes hold and prepares another spell—one that builds on the storm, perhaps; Castiel is too worried about his and Dean's safety to pay much attention. When it, too, fails, Lucifer begins a slow, hysterical laugh, like some kind of neurotic infection.

Castiel has never heard this kind of laughter from him before. If he didn't know better, he'd have said Lucifer was losing hope—giving into some kind of inexorable despair. If Lucifer had been different, he might have offered comfort—but he's Lucifer, so Castiel remains quietly preoccupied with gaining Dean as a—what? An ally? A friend?

He doesn't know, but he wants Dean to trust him. That might be possible now.

"Think again," Lucifer says through his disturbing laughter. "If I stay, so does he. And if he stays and sees us, he'll attack us. That means I get to kill him."

_And if he doesn't attack us?_

"Come now, Cassie," Lucifer says. "I've read more fairy tales than you, but have you ever read one when the hunter _didn't_ kill the monster?"

Well, no. But there's a first time for everything.

 

***

Winter comes on, and it rapidly becomes clear that Dean can't remain in the stable and live. Even with the food Castiel leaves out, he's not eating enough; when Castiel catches rare glimpses of him from above, he appears gaunt—though not yet starving. Castiel notices that he visits the trapdoor room more and more, until one day he stops visiting it altogether. This saddens Castiel. He knows the trapdoor's comfort is temporary and potentially maddening, but he had hoped allowing Dean to see his family might have helped him cope. Apparently not.

Shortly after Dean stops visiting the room under the trapdoor, he abandons the stable. Castiel is not surprised, though he also has no idea where to find the man. He spends two hours looking for a trail, and finally finds a string of streaked, wet footprints heading along the perimeter of the hedge. Dean must have traveled along it to keep warm.

And so Castiel finds Dean at the greenhouse some few hours after sunrise. He latches onto a nearby tree and uses the position to look in. Dean's sleeping.

Well. Castiel isn't sure what to think about that. Lucifer hates the place, because Michael had built it—but it's spelled, and warm. Some of the plants might still be alive—and some of them are edible. It's certainly a more survivable place than the stable for the sub-zero temperatures that are becoming more common at night.

However, the greenhouse is a highly inconvenient place for Castiel to hide. It would be completely impossible for him to do so, were it not for the adaptations Michael had caused to be made for Castiel to be able to care for the garden in his and Mary's absence. Though the walls of the greenhouse appear solid, straight, and uniform, each corner conceals an alcove—Dean has found one of them, and uses it as his sleeping area—and there are other hiding places above: panes of connected opaque glass that conceal his location as long as he keeps the wings folded.

Living in the greenhouse is, at best, uncomfortable—but the house is uninhabitable. Even Lucifer never returns to the house, preferring to spend all of his time outside hunting or mapping the fire barrier that surrounds his prison for the nth time. Lucifer's frustration is catching, but Castiel tries to dismiss it. Lucifer's storm had not damaged the spells binding him. Lawrence is safe.

Which is more than can be said of Dean.

It is fortunate that Lucifer shuns the greenhouse more often than not. It had been built by Michael and heavily spelled; consequently, Lucifer can't do it much damage. Castiel is pleased that it had survived the storm and years of neglect in decent repair. Dean makes himself at home, rapidly working through the garden plots to restore the plants that are still alive to thriving status. Castiel lurks out of sight, talking occasionally, but mostly leaving him alone. Lucifer attempts to goad him into looking at them, but Dean hasn't risen to the bait—yet.

Castiel doesn't have to stay in the greenhouse, but he also doesn't want to leave Dean alone out here. Humans alone don't fare well in winter—even in magical greenhouses. And Dean doesn't seem to mind talking to him—indeed, he's never shown much fear of Castiel—and Castiel sees no harm in their conversations.

The only topic that troubles him is Dean's persistent doubts of his existence.

Dean is convinced that he's crazy, or possessed. Castiel blames himself—it is his fault that Dean can't see him—and he is determined to fix matters as best he can.

Dean chooses to make this…difficult. Castiel has not known Dean long, but his experience with the man is that he makes everything more difficult than it strictly has to be. He had resisted eating Castiel's food, drinking the water, drinking the wine, using the space in the house—he fights everything, even things not worth fighting. Though he has trusted each of these things in turn, in every case it has taken time. Dean's trust doesn't come automatically. Slipping up even once will result in Castiel losing their tenuous peace: Mary is gone, and won't be able to wipe the slate clean again.

All of his attempts to convince Dean he's real and separate from both Dean and Lucifer fail—save one: a secret project that he cultivates, and one that Lucifer mocks him mercilessly for. He doesn't think that project will succeed—though if it ever does, it might go some way toward convincing Dean to trust him.

On a day in midwinter, frustrated by his project of proving his own existence and frightened of having Dean sharing such close quarters with Lucifer, Castiel decides to do the obvious thing, and let Dean go. Surely Lucifer's had his fun by now; he's gotten his souls, even if he hasn't made Castiel kill anyone.

He pitches the idea to Lucifer one evening, and the demon laughs, a deep gut laugh that makes his wings shake like boughs of a tree in a gale. "Fuck it all, are you serious?"

_Why wouldn't I be?_

"One," Lucifer says, "you owe me that brat because I didn't kill his dad. Two, you haven't killed anyone yet, and I'd rather it'd be you who killed him. And three, it's been a while since either of us had a human pet to play with, and I would hate to see you bored, Castiel."

Castiel doesn't answer. Not in words. The next morning, he sneaks back to the house to retrieve his demon-banishing amulet. He waits for a thaw in the weather and springs the amulet on Lucifer, hoping Dean will seize the opportunity to explore—and, perhaps, escape.

When Dean approaches the iron gate that leads to the stone path and freedom, Castiel is ready. Opening the gate nearly knocks Castiel out. Not the physical gate, which is what Lucifer would call "window dressing;" the magical gate that causes the fire around the hedge. If Lucifer had been awake, he would not have been able to budge the gate at all; as it is, dampening the gate's power for even a moment causes a thousand tiny knives to curve and slice into his wings; he feels like he's being ripped apart.

"Go," he grits out from his high perch. "Go."

 And Dean refuses.

Castiel clings to the tree he's in and breathes as invisible wounds tear him up from the inside out.

Why must Dean make everything so difficult?

 

***

 

When Dean returns to the greenhouse, Castiel is there ahead of him. His magic had been exhausted—more like extinguished—by holding the gate open for a few precious seconds, but he needs no magic to fly. He makes it back in plenty of time to hide in an alcove, drink some water and attempt to regain some sense of physical and mental equilibrium.

Through his numbing mind fog, Castiel realizes he's made a mistake. When Lucifer wakes up from his amulet-imposed nap, he's going to know exactly what Castiel tried to do. He's going to attack Dean again—

Castiel groans and covers his eyes.

"Something wrong?"

Castiel peeks out from between his feather and says without thinking, "Go away. Headache."

"Okay," Dean answers. "Go away where, exactly?"

"Hmph," Castiel says. "Never mind. Sorry. I'm just tired."

"Opening that gate takes it all out of you, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Sorry," Dean says. "I can't go back to Lawrence if I think I'm possessed by a demon. You should get that."

"Yes," Castiel says, and the hissing spirant of the _s_ sound makes his head buzz like a hive of angry bees. Lucifer is going to attack Dean again. Aside from a spade and small shovel, Dean has no weapons. Also, Lucifer could wake up at any moment. This is catastrophic.

No weapons. He doesn't even have anything to give Dean as a weapon; most of his had been destroyed in the storm.

Castiel's eyes track to the amulet hanging against the bare burned flesh of his chest, and suddenly, he knows what he has to do. "I have to give you something and I need you to accept it."

Dean shifts, tensing, and asks, "Um…is this supposed to be proof you're real?"

"No," Castiel says. What Dean thinks about him is irrelevant at the moment. "It's for your protection. I had to put the demon to sleep to let you out. When he wakes up, he'll try to kill you."

Dean whistles. "And if I had left? What would happen then?"

"The gate binds him here," Castiel says. Even with the gate opened, Castiel himself would not have been able to walk—or fly—through. "You would be safe."

"Wouldn't he kill you?"

"He can't."

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions." Castiel rips the amulet over his head, cord catching on his beak. He tosses it to Dean haphazardly, hoping it lands close enough for him to find.

"Uh," Dean says. "No offense, but I'm not touching that thing. For all I know, it's cursed."

"It's blessed," Castiel says irritably. "Lucifer can't touch it without being knocked out."

Dean gasps, and Castiel realizes a second too late what he just said. He'd revealed Lucifer's true name.

_To say the name is to summon the demon._

 

***

 

Castiel is slammed into the back of his own head as Lucifer takes over, howling fury and vengeance against everything and everyone. Lucifer's rage burns cold, withering flowers in their beds and coating the inside of the greenhouse with a thin sheen of ice.

"Well, well," Dean says. "'Bout time you showed yourself."

Dean is looking at Lucifer. The amulet Castiel had tossed is around his neck, and he has his shovel in his hand, holding it as he would a bludgeon. Castiel knows that those protections won't be enough.

"I was getting tired of our little game," Lucifer growls, "so how 'bout we settle this like men?"

"Doesn't quite seem fair," Dean says in a slow drawl, "but I'm game."

It all plays out with horrendous familiarity: Lucifer swipes at Dean with his wing, and Dean rolls out of his reach, toward one of the greenhouse's alcoves. He stands with his back to a corner, and Lucifer follows, wings stretching to full capacity. Castiel begs him to stop, but Lucifer swats aside his pleas with an angry slam; suddenly, Castiel is floating above the scene, too far away to see or do anything about it. He retreats further, into their shared mind, to a place where Castiel is only dimly aware of the outside world at all.

It's quiet here, dark. Somewhere he hears a plunking sound like a piano; his mother playing something—poorly, as was her wont. Sounds flit past him in total darkness, some identifiable, some not. He realizes that Lucifer has pushed him to a place like unconsciousness or dreaming—the place where the conscious touches the unconscious. His own thoughts drift, and he hears his own voice echoing in his mind—a voice uncorrupted by the demon's anatomy.

"How long will it last?" The question hangs in the air for a moment, and Castiel asks it, "How long will what last?"

Then he hears a familiar laugh, but it's not his own voice. It's Michael's. The laughter ceases, and Michael answers: "This spell? It'll probably outlive me."

Castiel remembers this conversation. They had talked just after the greenhouse had gone up, and Castiel had been concerned about the growth spells and the magical warmth the space had been imbued with.

_It'll probably outlive me._

Tragically, that had turned out to be true.

He blinks, and the darkness parts, revealing Michael dead of smoke inhalation on the ground outside of the main house, gleaming bronze amulet around his neck. Castiel had taken it; he had still had one hand then. Michael had been the hunter he had taken the amulet from—but Michael hadn't made it. A demon hunter in Lawrence had.

"Who?" he asks aloud, only partly aware that he is asking himself. Lucifer has contacts in town; Castiel might be able to reach out to someone there. If there's a demon hunter in Lawrence—a hunter that can make charms like that—

Before he can track anything down at all, he has to wake up. He wills himself back in control, but that has no effect. Lucifer's hold over him might as well be complete. He hangs on to his vision—as long as the dark doesn't swallow him up, he feels safer—and waits.

He comes back to awareness in waves, sometimes feeling Lucifer, but mostly not. He takes that as a positive sign. He focuses on retaining his memories of Michael and the amulet, determined to seek out a better way of protecting Dean. If he can't—or won't—leave, Castiel needs to keep him safe from Lucifer somehow.

If Dean's still alive.

And if he's not—Castiel needs a way to kill Lucifer. Especially if it means killing himself in the process.

When he finally achieves a state of full wakefulness, Lucifer is silent inside his head, and Dean is knocked out on the floor. There's blood everywhere, soaking the dirt like water, and Castiel scrabbles back until his spine touches the wall of the greenhouse. Michael's spell burns along the tips of his wings, but he ignores the sensation. His eyes are locked on Dean, searching for any sign of life.

There's none. The man is still. Lucifer had killed Dean.

Castiel's forehead shatters into a million tiny creases, and he folds his wings around himself in a cocoon, hugging himself tight. He sits up, numb, bereft of feeling, allowing the spell to burn his back as a form of punishment or repentance. The darkness breaks by slow degrees; he watches the sun rise through the glass haze.

Usually the sun gives him hope. Now all it does is remind him of the first sunrise after his possession: he'd come back from a blackout dissociative fugue naked, half-transformed, covered in blood and convinced he'd killed someone. He had failed then, too—and though his control over his cohabitant had seemingly increased over time, he knows that all thoughts of control are illusory. He'd agreed to become a monster, and the label fits.

Another failure. Another life lost because he'd given into this demon. Another day, like all the others since his possession. No better, no worse. With Dean gone, it would just be more of the same.

Light peeks in through his feathers: the sun is up. Lucifer remains silent, and Castiel reaches out tentatively to him, hoping for a reaction.

He feels a sharp pain in his left side. Probing the pain, he encounters a patch of burned skin and gasps.

Dean must have burned Lucifer with the amulet. Lucifer is knocked out. And that means—

Castiel is up and at Dean's side before he can take another breath. Dean's planted on his face; Castiel flips him over, wings searching for a pulse.

There isn't one.

Castiel is tempted to retreat to his corner again.

His failure makes him want to punch something, so he punches Dean square in the chest with the rounded bone of his wing joint, using almost enough pressure to break the skin. Then he sits back on his talons and thinks of suicide. Death. Peace.

Three seconds pass between Castiel giving up and Dean opening his eyes. They feel like three hours, and even as Castiel watches Dean cough and sit up, he doesn't quite believe it.

As soon as he sits up, his eyes lock on Castiel's for a few intense seconds. Then he starts to laugh—an echo of Michael's that makes something in Castiel's chest tighten and release, as if there's a hand wrapped around his heart.

With the force of whiplash, Castiel realizes that he had been in love with Michael.

Not Mary. _Michael._

That's—disturbing, but Castiel can't examine that right now. Dean is leaning up on his elbows, legs sprawled out, breathing hard.

"Oh my God," Dean says, "you _are_ real. I didn't dream that." He's smiling. He settles his hands to the floor and tries to push himself up, but fails. "Help me up, would you?"

Castiel doesn't move. He's not sure he can right now. "Aren't you—afraid?"

  
"Nah," Dean says. "You're the good one; I can tell." Dean reaches for him, hand brushing against his right wing. There is a bright flash like twin forks of lightning meeting in the sky, sudden and terrible, and the accompanying sound is like the one when he broke his leg as a boy: splintering and squelching at the same time, a support collapsing under pressure.

Castiel blinks and pulls his wing up to shield his eyes.

Instead of a wing, he finds a hand. Dean's?

No, not Dean's. His. He recognizes the pattern of freckles across the back of his hand from the dream he had dropped into on Dean's first night here. His eyes flick to his other side and see the other wing still there. "What the hell?" he asks, impressed that his voice remains relatively level.

"Yeah, I was about to ask the same thing," Dean says, but Castiel isn't really paying attention to him. He shifts his focus to Lucifer, interrogating him inside their shared headspace.

No response. He's still knocked out. That means he's probably not behind this somehow. Castiel breathes. Dean reaches out for his other wing, running his hand along the ridge of bone. This time, the reaction is not as violent; Castiel blinks, hears the uncomfortable squelch, and is faced with another whole hand and arm.

With two hands and thick feet, he's bottom-heavy now, and clumsy. He collapses to the ground, landing, somewhat regrettably, in a flowerbed.

Dean stands over him, towering, and he smirks. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that you were human once? That painter?"

"Yes," he says. "That was me."

Dean folds his arms across his chest. "Any idea why you're changing back?"

Several ideas, some testable, some not. Castiel nods and braces his ungainly torso on his hands. "I didn't turn into this overnight," he says. It had taken days, or weeks; his memory of the transformation is imperfect. He reaches out with his hand, and Dean helps him up, grip reassuring and steady.

"That explains why you're turning back in pieces," Dean says, "but not why me touching you does it."

"I think that has something to do with Michael," Castiel says. He more than thinks it, but that's not a box he can open right now. "Could you touch my legs? I'm having trouble balancing."

Dean obliges lazily, saying, "Okay, but be aware there are certain things that I am absolutely not touching."

Castiel clicks his beak together to keep from laughing, then winces as the familiar bone-breaking sensation transforms his bones back into their human shape. When his legs change, he notices residual feathers breaking free of his new skin, and is briefly glad to be spared molting.

The skin of Dean's forehead pinches together, and he reaches out, very carefully, to touch Castiel on the beak. For a moment—a minute?—Castiel is deaf and blind as his features reshape themselves; then Dean's expression lifts, and he laughs again. "Huh. I almost recognize you, Cas, but I don't think your picture did you justice."

Castiel blinks. Was that a compliment?

"But you seriously need clothes," Dean says. "Come on." He helps Castiel up, and Castiel realizes that his limbs are, indeed, naked. Dean hasn't touched his chest or any other intimate parts, so it's not as embarrassing as it could be, but yes, he could use some clothes.

Dean tosses him some spare winter garments, and Castiel puts them on clumsily, fingers slipping on the roughness of the fabric. Some part of him misses the superior protection of his feathers. "How did you knock Lucifer out?"

"I used that amulet thing as a weapon," Dean says.

Castiel's lips twitch up in the ghost of a smile. "So you trusted me."

"No," Dean says, "but when you're being attacked by a monster, you use what you've got." Dean squints. "Speaking of which, how likely is it that we'll get a visit from your monster friend before too long?

That's an excellent question. When Castiel had first been taken over by Lucifer, he had retained part of his human body during the day, and had transformed fully into the beast at night. It's possible that Lucifer will return when the sun sets. "I would say the odds are good."

"Crap," Dean says. "And I suppose there's no way to break the spell?"

Well, there's a way. "Yes," he says calmly. "You have to kill me."


	26. The Spell

"No," Dean says firmly. "I'm not killing you. You're the good one."

Castiel offers him a tired smile. "And what does that mean? Innocent people aren't generally possessed by demons, Dean. Lucifer destroyed that wagon train and made your family destitute." He had also killed Jo—but Castiel can't say that; not right now. "If I hadn't agreed to host him, that wouldn't have happened." Castiel pauses, the image of Jo's wide and curiously pitying eyes haunting his memory. "You should hate me."

Dean shakes his head. "Well, I don't," he says. "Mind games crap aside, you've been decent to me." He thinks for a moment. "How can I help?"

The question makes warmth leap to Castiel's throat. He swallows it down before he can do something stupid like cry. Dean looks—and in some ways, acts—so much like Michael that his memory can't always tell the difference.

And he does remember, now. He remembers marrying Michael and Mary in a secret ceremony. He remembers the gallant and cold John Winchester willing to play in to his brother's plan so that Mary could be spared shunning by the town. In many ways, Castiel and John had been in similar situations.

Castiel had been in love with Michael.

John had been in love with Mary.

But Michael and Mary had loved one another, as truly and deeply as emotions like that go. Castiel would have done anything to see Michael happy. Though Castiel had sensed a deep bitterness in John, he suspects the same holds true of him.

Castiel wonders if Dean knows he isn't John's son. Sam likely isn't, either.

Castiel also knows that transferring any part of his feelings for the father onto the son is—disturbing. Sick. Wrong. He shouldn't do it. He shouldn't think about men that way at all. That's how he wound up in this mess in the first place. It's why he'd lied about knowing Michael in Dean's dream.

The memory of the lie makes him blush from shame.

Like him, Mary had been shamed. When Mary's father had fallen foul of Azazel and lost his soul, Mary had made a foolish bargain—her soul for her father's life. Never mind that her father had been a legendary hunter and had, predictably, beaten her half to death for her trouble.

The Campbells had prized family above all else. Apparently the Winchesters had also picked up and retained that trait.

Castiel remembers Mary's long convalescence in his own home; he remembers Michael's frequent visits, his promises to save Mary no matter what it took. He remembers Michael's slow but sure ostracization from Lawrence as more people realized what he was—a white witch. Not a witch borrowing powers from a demon, but a witch born with power from some other source: a rare creature, easy to distrust.

All this hits Castiel in a sudden flash of emotional memory; in the same instant, he realizes that he is also a creature that can't be trusted. "If you kill me," he says, "you'll help me. The demon won't come back. I won't hurt anyone else."

It's better than the alternatives.

While Michael and Mary had stayed with him, Castiel had frequently ordered supplies through town—until all but one supplier, Robert Singer, had refused to accept his money. He remembers Michael biting into a wheat roll and finding a tarnished razor blade embedded in his lip. And Michael hadn't even been a monster—he'd just been mistaken for one.

Castiel is under no illusions about what he is.

"You won't hurt anyone anyway," Dean says, and his confidence is so like Michael's. But Michael had died.

"I won't _want_ to hurt anyone," Castiel corrects mildly. "The demon doesn't care what I want." Well, that's not strictly true. Lucifer had wanted Michael. Castiel had gotten in the way. Lucifer had done his best to obscure Castiel's independent identity, but Castiel retains enough. He knows his _why_ now—his reason for possession.

Dean lets out a slow breath. "Well, I'm not killing you." He thinks a moment. "I could chain you up. Got any iron?"

Castiel nods. He knows exactly where to find it—iron chain had been forged and stored as part of a mechanism to open the iron gate. The mechanism had never been completed, but the chain might still be serviceable. He gets up slowly—jelly for legs—and leans against the glass of the greenhouse. There is no painful burning sensation; Michael's spell doesn't hurt him anymore. The demon is gone—for now.

"We can try," Castiel says.

Dean follows him outside, walking slowly to accommodate Castiel's pace, shifting from foot to foot when he gets impatient. Castiel finds the coiled chain buried under the south end of the greenhouse, where he'd stashed it after his mother had abandoned the gate mechanism. It had been buried in a wooden box; Castiel lifts it out, finding the links on top slightly rusted but intact. Though he expects it to, the iron doesn't burn.

He hands one end of the chain to Dean, and they stretch it out. Dean starts counting links in groups of ten, and when he's done he nods in satisfaction. "There's a tree near the greenhouse that's old and deep-rooted enough to resist damn near anything, and I think the chain can loop--" He stops and counts a few links. "Three times around, maybe. Let's test it."

Castiel limps toward the tree after Dean, the end of the chain hanging limply from his hands. His muscles don't feel weak, but his hip joints feel brittle. He doesn't want to ask Dean to touch those, so he doesn't. Dean notices his limp, but says nothing. When they get to the tree, Dean winds the chain three and a half times around and nods in satisfaction. "It'll do," he says.

"For what?" Castiel asks.

"For chaining you to the tree."

"I understand that," he says. "You don't seem to understand how strong the demon is."

Dean frowns, fiddling with the amulet around his neck. He must have retrieved it before they'd gone outside. "We need safeguards," he says. "Bobby taught me how to make a devil's trap. You know how to do that?"

Castiel thinks a moment, then nods shakily. Though his human memories are clearer with Lucifer gone—perhaps understandably so—he retains enough of Lucifer's knowledge to know what Dean is talking about. "We need knives." Briefly, Castiel regrets the loss of his talons. "And a fire."

"Why?" Dean asks.

"Mixing my blood into the symbol will make it stronger." An ordinary devil's trap would not hold Lucifer for long. "And Lucifer shuns fire. He burns cold. I think—" No, he knows: Lucifer had been born in fire, and Castiel suspects it might be the only thing that can destroy him. "—fire can hurt him."

"Fire it is," Dean says. "We'll talk about the blood thing later. It's creepy."

Castiel chooses not to argue. He and Dean are talking, like they always do. In some ways it feels like nothing has changed—even though he's nearly human again. Granted, he suspects that's temporary.

From a certain perspective, though, everything is temporary.

Dean and Castiel spend the day making the greenhouse habitable for two people, though they are woefully short on blankets. Castiel suspects this won't be a problem—by tonight, he'll have feathers and demonic magic enough to keep him warm for the rest of eternity.

Food also becomes something of a sticking point. Castiel tries to conjure food as he normally would—and fails. The greenhouse has stores, but he and Dean sit for an hour counting plants and determining harvest schedules. Castiel insists that he doesn't need to eat—he hasn't been hungry since he changed—but Dean refuses to listen.

"You're human, man. I'm not going to not feed you. Wouldn't be right."

Castiel tolerates this attitude because it prevents Dean from asking him questions. Even later in the afternoon, when they lay down the devil's trap by the tree and set up a pit lined with stones for a fire, Dean remains concentrated on the tasks, not on Castiel's sudden emergence from demonic possession.

They're settled down for a meager dinner (that Castiel refuses to touch) before Dean asks him anything—but he wastes no time getting to the point. "So, are we going to talk about any of this?"

Castiel looks up from the spinach and potato in front of him and catches a glimpse of himself in the greenhouse's reflective glass. "Any of what?"

Dean shrugs. "You haven't told me why you agreed to host the demon," he says. "I think it has something to do with my mom, but—"

Castiel is a bit surprised at this; he'd thought Dean would ask something more prosaic to start. Like how he'd turned human, and why. Apparently the demon—or Dean's mother—matters more. Castiel stares into his misty reflection for a moment and stands up. The sun is going down. He faces Dean and motions outside. "Tomorrow," he says. "I'll tell you about that—tomorrow."

 

***

 

Before the sun goes down, Dean winds the chain around Castiel and the tree almost too strongly: Castiel's ribs protest at being bit into, and he finds it difficult to breathe. This done, Dean works on building a fire in the pit lined with stones. Castiel feels the transformation into Lucifer sneak slowly up on him, like the encroaching darkness moving overland; he tries to call out, warn Dean, but by that point the chain is loose and Lucifer has moved away from the tree to struggle violently with the devil's trap.

Dean gets up with a torch, threatening Lucifer backward, toward the tree as he chants a spell in Latin. As he stands at the edge of the trap, Lucifer yanks the torch out of Dean's hands and claws at him in the dark. Dean retrieves the torch in a light, quick movement and swings it toward Lucifer's face, temporarily blinding and pushing him back.

Castiel sees all of this, but Lucifer has erected a wall against him as strong as the one Castiel had felt against Lucifer for all of that day: no way through. For the foreseeable future, the body they inhabit is only big enough for one of them—and right now, that body is burning. Castiel smells smoke and burning flesh: the torch must have connected.

Lucifer doesn't care. He comes at Dean with his wings extended, huge and terrifying; he chants a spell in Enochian that will curse the ground. And if the ground is cursed, the devil's trap may not hold—

Dean hovers at the end of the trap, torch in hand, face half-obscured by the dark. He takes a sudden step backward and yells, "Catch!"

Instinctively, Lucifer's wing twitches out to intercept whatever object it is that Dean has thrown. A heartbeat later, burning spreads out from Castiel's chest like the onset of fever, all-encompassing. Lucifer resists the feeling for a second—two seconds—three. Then Castiel hears their heartbeat stutter. Lucifer falls, and Castiel falls with him.

 

***

 

When Castiel finally opens his eyes, one of them is swollen half-shut. A long cut from his face to his shoulder stings like rubbing alcohol, and he sits up too fast from pain. Immediately, he's flat on his back again, and Dean says, "Welcome back to the world."

Both he and Dean had survived the night. He breathes relief, closing his eyes. The swollen one itches and catches on the exposed skin of his upper eyelid, but that doesn't matter. He's alive. _They're_ alive.

Castiel sits up rather more slowly than before, and he and Dean go down to the river to wash Castiel's face. Castiel takes the opportunity to make sure that Dean is uninjured. He doesn't remember Lucifer hurting him, but he'd also blacked out.

"I'm fine," Dean says when he notices Castiel's scrutiny. He sits cross-legged by Castiel next to the stream, and motions for Castiel to move closer to him. Though he has no shoes and it's cold, there's still mud by the stream's shoreline that gets caught between Castiel's toes. He loves the feeling so much that he finds it difficult to pay attention for long—or maybe that's just the head injury. He shuffles over to Dean and drops into a crouch, then sits. "I'm more worried about you," Dean says, motioning for Castiel to tilt his head up so he can see the damage.

Castiel obliges, and Dean whistles a low, impressed note. "I knew I got him good, but I didn't think the harm would transfer over."

"Killing me would kill him," Castiel says tiredly, feeling like he is repeating the same words over and over to no effect.

"Seems so," Dean says. He unfolds a blanket from behind him and dips one corner of it in the water. "Still not an option. Hold still." He frowns, bringing the cold wet blanket to Castiel's eye. Castiel hisses, but doesn't move away. He remembers enough about infection to know this injury needs to be washed. "I'll do better tonight," Dean says as he presses the blanket to the gash. "I don't think he'll fall for the same trick twice."

"You used the amulet again," Castiel says, remembering the burning and the passing out. "Of course. He'll expect that." Dean uses his free hand to adjust Castiel's position, knuckles brushing across his cheekbone, and Castiel freezes."

Dean pulls his hand back hastily and says, "Look up a little. I can't see the rest of it from here." He doesn't touch Castiel directly again, and the coil of panic in Castiel's gut unwinds. He shouldn’t be concerned with Dean touching him; Dean has to touch him in the mornings to make him human again. He realizes that today is the first time Dean has touched his skin—his human skin, not Lucifer's feathers and bones.

He exhales painfully through his nose and looks where Dean directs, torn edges of his wound pinching painfully tight. Dean pats around the rinsed cut carefully and nods in satisfaction, putting the blanket to the side. "You'll live," he says. "It'll be a nasty scar, though."

"I don't mind that."

"Good." Dean looks at him, expression serious and intense. "Now that that's…" he trails off, and coughs. "That is, you promised you'd tell me about the demon."

"So I did." Castiel recalls his promise, but has no desire to talk about these things. Not here; not in the open, not exposed. He feels exposed enough. "Shouldn't you eat?"

Dean gives him a disappointed look. "Sure," he says. "If you'll eat with me. And tell me about the demon." He gets up, wet blanket draped over his arms and dripping on the ground. Castiel gets to his feet slowly, raw wind making his cut contract along the edges. He shambles after Dean slowly, considering how to tell this story.

He can't tell Dean about loving Michael. Dean has seen Michael's picture; it would be too strange. It would be better to put more of an emphasis on Mary. There's a problem: Castiel knows he's a terrible liar. He's also going to have to reveal some unpleasant truths about Dean's parentage and upbringing that he can't help but think should be revealed by someone else—someone closer to him; someone who knows Dean better.

That can't be helped. For better or worse, they're both stuck here—and Dean deserves the truth.

Once he gets back to the greenhouse, Dean pushes a handful of blackberries into Castiel's hand and refuses to eat any himself until Castiel consumes his handful. He's still not hungry, but he munches the berries with a sense of quiet detachment. Dean is losing weight. He's cut rations and it's Castiel's fault. He's tried to bring this up, but Dean refuses to let Castiel go without eating. When he's finished his handful, he says, tentatively, "Well, I hardly know where to start. I'm not sure how long I've been here. How old I am. How long I've been away."

"You were here before the fire," Dean prompts. "You were maybe my age, then. Do you remember how old you were?"

These are patient, easy questions. Castiel appreciates them. "I was twenty," he says. "Your mother was twenty-two. Michael, twenty-three." He swallows. "We were here, the night of the fire. You saw."

 Dean nods. "What caused the fire?"

Castiel threads his fingers together and settles his hands in his lap in mock prayer: an old nervous habit he thought he'd outgrown. "Everyone thinks something supernatural caused it," Castiel says. "That's wrong. It was Crowley. He'd come for Michael—accused him of backing out of their deal."

"Had he?"

"Yes." Castiel sees no reason to lie. "Crowley set fire to the house once he realized Michael wouldn't give himself up. I stayed behind, tried to buy them time, but—they didn't make it out." Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. "I thought Crowley hadn't, either, but Lu—the demon still talks to him, sometimes." Castiel pauses, thinks: he doesn't want to call Lucifer out again.

"Let me guess," Dean says. "You took Michael's place in the deal. That's why you turned into the demon."

"Something like that." The spell Castiel is now under is of Michael's design. Normal possession would have burned out his soul long ago, or allowed Lucifer to kill him outright without consequences. When Michael had accepted the contract the save Mary's soul, he had placed safeguards around the deal so that his own soul would not be obliterated.

Castiel had activated the spell when he'd seen that they were all trapped in the house—no way out. He had hoped that by doing that, he could save Michael's soul. He thinks he had—but he'll never find out for certain. Michael's dead; it's likely that Castiel will live forever, in some form or another, chained to the comet of Lucifer's rage.

"Hey," Dean says, a little loud, and Castiel flinches. "What aren't you telling me?"

"What makes you think—"

"I've listened to your voice for months, dude. I know when you're lying—or about to. Spill."

Castiel sighs. "Your mother—Mary—the deal was originally for her soul. Her father, Samuel, was killed by a demon called Azazel." As far as Castiel knows, Azazel is dead: sacrificed to create the spell that maintains Castiel's partial independence; therefore, it is safe to say his name. "She offered up her soul to save him."

"Stupid, mom," Dean mutters under his breath. "So stupid."

"Yes, I suppose it was," Castiel says. He sees the opportunity to reveal a bit more about Dean's parentage here—certainly, he'd like to deflect away from his sacrifice for Michael. "Remember, she was married to Michael, then. I'm not surprised you don't remember him. You were very young."

Dean nods. "Who was Michael? You never told me. I mean, I saw a picture, but I've honestly never heard of the guy and I thought I knew the whole family going generations back."

"Michael's name was expurgated from most records after Lawrence learned what he was," Castiel says. "A white witch—blessed, not cursed. But you know that town is superstitious—not fond of the supernatural."

"That doesn't really answer the question."

"Yes," Castiel concedes. "I'm not sure that I can. But I know Michael's brother was named John. I think—"

"—he was my dad," Dean says. "Yeah, I thought the same thing when I saw that picture. Makes sense. Explains why da—John was so messed up."

Castiel shrugs. "For all intents and purposes, John raised you as his son. If you prefer to keep thinking of him as your father, I doubt Michael would mind."

Dean hms and inclines his head. "I take it John got in on the ostracization front."

"Kind of," Castiel says. His head hurts: he hasn't thought about any of this in a very long time, and skirting so close to his own real reasons for being this way feels uncomfortable, like slicing back layers of skin and fat with a flensing knife: like skinning himself. "He couldn’t be seen talking to Michael. He helped him come here."

"And you didn't mind having a witch come live with you?"

"Michael and I had been friends since we were children," Castiel says.

"That's not what you said before—"

"I know," Castiel says. "The demon hates Michael, and many of my memories were—locked. Hidden." This isn't strictly true, but it's easier to explain than the actual truth.

Memories of early childhood come to him more easily, though the misty fog of early recollection is upon them, so that only a few really stand out. "Anyway, I knew he wasn’t evil and wanted to help."

"Big of you."

Castiel shrugs again. "I dabbled a bit in the occult is well. It's not as if Lawrence was shocked when I agreed to take him in."

"Occult?" Dean stiffens.

"Anti-magic mainly," he says. "Hoodoo. Goofa dust. Things like that." His mother had been convinced there was demonic magic in the house. She'd been right, but she'd never learned to what extent; she had died before Michael had come to live with Castiel. "I had a little natural talent with that—it probably helped that it's mainly recipe-driven. I was always good at mixing things. Paint, and warding magic."

"Odd combination."

"Not to me," Castiel says. "Anyway, John helped Michael pack and kept sending supplies even after the town cut us off, so I don't think he wanted to abandon his brother."

Dean nods slowly. "And he married his widow. Convenient." Dean sighs. "So you're telling me that you were a good person stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time. That you took a hit for my parents."

"I suppose so."

"Why?"

"They were my friends."

"Is that the only reason?"

"It's the only reason I'm proud of."

Dean frowns, and Castiel thinks he's going to ask another question—a harder one, this time—but he doesn't. Instead, he nods firmly. "Well, I appreciate it," he says. "And I'll find a way to keep you human."

It sounds like a promise.


	27. After Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean and Cas have a not-entirely-voluntary sleepover. (Also, RIP Thamiris, whose style I have emulated for portions of this chapter. Probably poorly.)

Castiel's abbreviated account of his past seems to satisfy Dean—at least for the moment. After Castiel completes his story, he asks no more questions, opting to prepare and eat lunch and work more on the garden. Castiel continues work on his secret project, somewhat upset that so many of his attempts have failed—but he thinks he's getting close to completion. The problem—which he identifies with chagrin mixed with self-reproach—is that when he loses the separation between Dean and Michael, the project becomes more difficult. Allowing them to blur makes everything else focus for him, but also causes the sensation that he's being peeled open. Exposed. Hurt.

Looking at Dean hurts now in a way it didn't when Lucifer was still with him. It feels too much like how he used to look at Michael. He catches Dean looking at him throughout the day, oblivious, and Castiel finds himself praying to be spared.

Spared repeating his past.

Spared making decisions about his future.

He doesn't trust prayer. Only his long cultivation of dispassion—honed by Lucifer and a life of being different in the face of intolerance—prevents any of his distress from showing on his face. Dean's feelings toward him are of mild distrust and obligation; he should work to maintain that. The problem is that Dean owes him nothing, and Castiel wishes to convince him of this without revealing any more of himself than he has to.

He can't have it both ways. Sooner or later, Dean is going to pry away Castiel's excuses and omissions: it's what he does.

Castiel isn't ready. He hasn't been human—just human—for long enough.

And he never remains human for long. Castiel finds it difficult to manage the transitions between night and morning: every night, bright pain makes his vision white out and his joints shudder almost to the point of breaking; Lucifer emerges angry, ready to fight, and spends all his time struggling with the chains. Every morning, Dean runs a hand over Castiel's battered face, his arms, his legs, and Castiel turns into what he considers his true self—at least until the next transformation.

Castiel doesn't need to eat, but he takes the berries and spinach Dean offers him with humble gratitude, and uses what feeble skill he has to help Dean clear the flowerbeds in the greenhouse and bring their harvests in.

Castiel notices—but doesn't again mention—that Dean has left the flowerbeds for last.

Their work in the flowerbeds risks exposing Castiel's special project, but he makes no move to hide it. It's almost ready, anyway.

During the day, Dean asks him questions—some easy, like how Lucifer's hold over him works, others harder, like how he'd come to be possessed in the first place. Castiel wants to answer all of Dean's questions, but he's unsure of how much he should say. When Castiel is human—well, humanoid—Lucifer expresses no opinions: during the day, Castiel is alone in his own mind. Now that he is gone—exiled, at least—Castiel is somewhat surprised at how much he had relied on Lucifer for answers, for support. They'd been partners for so long that part of that must be inevitable, but faced with Dean's questions and Lucifer's muteness, Castiel often finds himself likewise mute.

One night, as the sun hides behind the trees, taking the rest of the daylight with it, Castiel leaves the greenhouse and moves toward the tree and the chain, expecting Dean to follow as he usually does.

"Hey," Dean calls after him, hovering at the greenhouse's door. "Stop. Get back here. I've got another idea."

Castiel returns to the greenhouse, eyes flicking between the setting sun and Lucifer's least favorite place. "What's your plan?" he asks. "Make it quick."

Dean motions for him to sit. Castiel crouches down slowly and watches as Dean reveals a length of rope, perhaps three feet long. "Give me your hand," he says.

Castiel settles completely on the floor and watches as Dean lashes his left arm to Castiel's right. He pulls back a little, surprised. "What's this for?"

"Call it a theory," Dean says. "You become human when I touch you, for whatever reason. If I keep touching you, you won't change."

"And if I transform anyway? Right next to you?" The last light of the day recedes fast, leaving him and Dean mostly in shadow. Castiel holds his breath.

In the half-light, Dean's eyes appear gray-green: very like his mother's. Castiel stares for a full thirty seconds before ducking and letting out a slow breath.

Dean smiles. "Looks like it's working."

Castiel nods. "What about tomorrow morning?" Castiel remembers Lucifer emerging in the mornings, when he feels he's been jilted of his rightful time.

Dean's smile holds, but it collapses a little at the corners. "I can only solve one problem at a time, here."

They sit next to one another, awkwardly shifting. Castiel tries to get comfortable without doing something silly like holding hands. "How are we supposed to sleep like this?"

Dean gestures to his bedding. "We're short on blankets anyway. It makes sense to stay close."

Castiel is about to protest, because he has to. Two men sleeping the same space even when both are—normal, and attracted to women—is uncommon. In Castiel's case, doing this risks exposing him for what he is.

Unthinkingly, Castiel's jaw hinges open, ready to yell, but all his objections die in his throat. If he refuses, that means both he and Dean will have to sit up all night. If Lucifer emerges in the morning—and he might—that means Dean will have to face Lucifer sleep-deprived as well as at close quarters. He glances at the amulet around Dean's neck and the spelled walls of the greenhouse and nods uncertainly.

Dean waits for Castiel to lock his arm straight and down along with his, and they settle side by side on Dean's nest of fern and dried leaves covered by the blankets from the house, not touching except where their hands are bound. "Don't hog the blankets," Dean says, pulling the moth-eaten and now dry blanket he'd used to wash Castiel's cut over them. Castiel uses his free hand to spread the blankets out equably.

He's in no danger of shivering.

Night passes with the land speed of a garden snail. Castiel has never slept in the same bed with another person—his mother perhaps excepted, when he'd been very young and had nightmares. And calling this collection of bracken and blankets a bed is an overstatement. He's on his back, and he shifts around restlessly, making the leaves shush beneath him.

"Can't sleep?" Dean asks thickly.

"No." Castiel blinks, trying to accustom his eyes to the dark. "I'm disturbing you. I'm sorry."

"Don’t worry about it," Dean says. "I can't sleep myself. I'm half-convinced you're right and that the demon's coming back any second." Castiel feels Dean's hand intertwine with his own and give it a gentle squeeze.

"I'd do my best to warn you," he says, returning the clasp unthinkingly before letting go.

"I know," Dean says. "You're not what I expected," he adds quietly, almost to himself.

"What did you expect?"  With Dean this close, he can smell the clean earth smell from the greenhouse, the lingering scent of the roses Dean sleeps near mixed with the cloying sweat of the day. Ever since Dean had touched his face by the river to clean his cut, he's been craving—and resisting—a closeness he can't define in words.

This is why sleeping next to one another is a bad idea. Too late now.

"No offense, but—" Dean pauses. "Well, I thought you were a demon for a long time. I had this picture of you in my head, and, I didn't expect you to—" he broke off.  "Sorry, Cas.  I'm just talking to myself.  It's been a long day and I haven't slept." He pauses, then says "sorry" again.

Castiel is confused and a bit sleep-deprived himself, so it takes him a moment to figure out what Dean is trying to ask. "What didn't you expect?" Castiel tries again, probing for clarification. A gust of wind from the north shakes the top of the greenhouse, and he inches closer to Dean until their shoulders bump. For warmth, of course. He turns his face, hoping to see Dean in the dark.

Dean stares at the place where their shoulders touch, eyes lifting to Castiel's face. "I didn't…really expect you to be a different person," he says. "It's hard to explain. When I talked to you, it usually seemed like I was talking to myself."

"Which is either extremely selfish, or quite flattering."

"Yeah." Dean chuckles. "In any case, I was wrong. That's what I didn't expect."

Castiel fixes his eyes a little above Dean's head, wanting this closeness but not wanting to get caught up in it. "I didn't expect you to help me. You're a hunter. You should kill me."

"Nah," Dean says, running his free hand through his hair in a careless gesture. "You're human. I don't kill people." His lips twitch down, and he says, "You're lucky they didn't send Gordon. _He_ would have killed you. Crazy bastard."

Castiel doesn't remember anyone named Gordon, and the expanse of time between him and Dean unfolds like the rumpled blankets. "I didn't give you much cause to trust me."

"Yeah, the not seeing you thing was weird. I mean, I get it now, but it seemed pretty messed up at the time."

"I didn't mean to—play games like that. Mess with your head." Castiel's words come out clumsy, like a child learning to color inside the lines; he feels like he can't say exactly what he means.

"I know," Dean says, and his exhalation washes warm against the side of Castiel's face. "You're nothing like the demon.  Actually, that's not quite true. You're both stubborn bastards."  Dean pushes himself up on his shoulder, raising their tied arms a little so that he and Castiel are facing one another directly.  "I couldn't get much intel out of either one of you."

"I was trying to keep you safe."

Dean chuckles. "Yeah, about that," he says. "You've always seemed—unusually protective." He gives Castiel a long look; Castiel stares stoically at Dean's forehead, a little above his eyes, and waits for the accusations in Dean's gaze to shift focus. "Care to share why?"

"Not particularly."

"Come on, Cas," he says. "I've gone easy on you, and you've got secrets. Isn't this what friends do—stay up all night and tell one another their stupid dreams and innermost secrets and shit?"

"I don't know," Castiel says. "I don't have friends."

"Michael was your friend."

"So was Mary. And look where it got them." Castiel uses his right shoulder to try to press away from Dean, but Dean catches him and holds him still.

"All right, that was a dick thing of me to bring up. I get that." He doesn't speak for a few seconds. "But you clam up whenever you mention Michael, and he's my dad, so. I'm curious."

Castiel closes his eyes. "The memories are not…" He trails off. Most of his memories of Michael are happy ones. Michael may not have reciprocated his feelings, but he'd always accepted Castiel for who—what—he was. The ache of talking about him now is the pain of nostalgia, weakened and smoothed by time like river stones. Dean's presence—and the fact that he looks so much like Michael—is what sharpens the edges of those memories. Dean makes his memories hurt, because—

"You mean you can't remember?" Dean asks, disappointment palpable in his tone.

"No, I do," he says. "Some things. What do you want to know?"

"What was he like? How did he find out he was a witch? How did he deal with my dad? How'd he meet mom? How—"

"Stop," Castiel says, "or we'll be up all night." Dean's eyes gleam in the dark, glued to his face, and his expression is childlike, expectant and curious. Castiel realizes that Dean is alone in the dark with a monster, and in some twisted way, he's appealing to his parents—their memory, at least—for help.

"Okay," Castiel begins. "I'll tell you what I remember."

 

***

 

Castiel's earliest memories are of his father, who died—or left—when he was quite young. His mother had claimed that his father had left because of him—because of what he was. From what he recalls, he thinks she'd been right; the earliest scars on his back had come from a scourge wielded by a man whose face he doesn't recall.

He skips over those memories with the power of long practice, like blotting paint on a tray. "As to what Michael was like, " he begins, sorting through Dean's questions chronologically, "I don't know what to say. He's one of my oldest friends." The present tense slips out, and he doesn't correct it; it's sometimes hard, these days, to remember Michael's dead—though that galls him like bitter acid in the places in him with a vise grip on the past. "The Winchesters aren't native to Lawrence—you probably know that."

Dean nods. His parents had been the first generation to settle there.

"Lawrence was—insular. Closed to newcomers. I suppose it still is." He sighs. "The Miltons—my family—lived in the house that was destroyed in the storm for a long time. They were here before the town, I think." Records that go back that far are unreliable, but the stonework of the path precedes the town and its muddy roads by decades. "At first, the Winchesters had some trouble making friends. And the Miltons never really had any."

"Because you were into occult stuff?"

"Not quite." Castiel smiles gently. "The opposite, in fact. My parents were extremely devout. I wasn't allowed to go into town, or to school, or—anything at all, really."

"That sucks."

"It did," Castiel affirms, "but Michael found me anyway. I was around eleven or twelve. I had escaped one of my tutors—a wastrel and a thief called Mr. Balthazar, I think—and had run to the back of the house. There used to be a courtyard there. Some of the stone is still there, buried in dirt." Lucifer had destroyed most of it in one of his early rampages. "Michael had gotten lost in the woods, as children still do, sometimes. It happened more often then."

Castiel shudders briefly, blank places in his mind consumed by the fear of what he—no, Lucifer—had done to lost and innocent travelers over the years. He hadn't been so clear, so controlled, so powerful against his demonic possessor since, since—

Since John had arrived. The Winchesters pull it out of him, somehow. Some kind of strength, against demons. But before that, the best he'd managed to do was hold Lucifer catatonic and unmoving during his shifts, in the attempt to make everyone believe this place was deserted. And at that, he'd failed.

Dean is looking at him with an expression of concern. "You okay, Cas?"

"Yes," he says quickly. "Sorry. Not all of my memories are—easy." He had run away from his tutor, yes, but that's because Balthazar had threatened to take him to his mother, and all conversations with his mother had ended the same way. "Anyway, he'd fallen and scraped himself up in the courtyard. Badly. I invited him in because of the bleeding."

The north star winks at him, and he blinks up at the vast sky. The beauty of the sky recalls to him the wonder and awe of his first understanding of himself, but that's something he'll have to censor. He feels tears form at the corners of his eyes and blinks rapidly, forcing everything back. Stay calm. Stay clear.

"Anyway," Castiel says, seeking his long-trained dispassion out in the twisted halls of his memory. "He came in. Balthazar helped patch him up—there was a lot of blood. I noticed, though, that he wasn't actually hurt. The skin underneath the blood was healed."

He had noticed other things as well. The lush green of Michael's eyes and his concentrated, kind attention had made Castiel _want._ He'd wanted a friend. He had needed one, for his whole life. Tutors didn't count, and neither did God. Though their meeting that day had been brief, Castiel remembers attaching to him with the strength of a barnacle to a rock.

He's still having trouble letting go.

He hadn't felt recognizable sexual attraction to Michael then; that would come later. Some signs had been present from the beginning, but he only recognizes them in hindsight: the blushing, the stammering, heart racing, forehead sweating, heart in his throat.

"So you always knew he was a witch?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "I always knew. And he knew I wouldn't tell. I never told anyone."

"Then how did everyone find out?"

"One question at a time." Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on what memories he retains of his deep past. "You asked what he was like. He was reckless. Brave. He got lost in the woods far more often than I ever did. He essentially lived there alone. I think his powers frightened his family."

Dean nods. "Makes sense. I'm a little freaked, having witch blood. I mean, I know Sammy's got a touch of talent, but no natural healing or anything like that."

"And you appear to have no magic at all," Castiel says. Aside from the Winchesters' strange ability to draw out Castiel's self-control, he has seen nothing remotely magical about either Dean or John. "Odd, in Michael's son. He didn't define himself by his powers, but he didn't hesitate to use them. Which, incidentally, is how he was found out."

"Hm?" Dean prompts. He yawns, but his eyes are wide open.

"He exorcised the demon in Karen Singer. Well, I helped, but—"

"Wait, you're saying he exorcised that thing? Dad and Bobby always said some preacher from Prague did that. And didn't that leave her—"

"Dead?" Castiel asks. He nods his head to his chest briefly. "The demon was banished to Hell—as it should have been—but the demon had killed his host before we got there. Naturally, Michael was blamed."

"Oh," Dean says. "Did Bobby—know about you? Meet you?"

"We met in passing," Castiel says. "A long time ago. I assume you mean Mr. Singer; I never knew him as Bobby."

"And I'm finding it tough to think of him as Mr. Singer," Dean says, smiling a little. "So Karen died, and the town blamed Michael."

"Yes. Mr. Singer didn't, but around that time the Singers lost all their clout to the McClouds, and the run of bad luck was also blamed on Michael—on the Winchesters generally." He frowns. "I don't recall Mr. Singer being particularly fond of Michael, either. I know he didn't know about your parents' marriage."

"Yeah, I figured that," Dean says. "Weird. Did dad just—pretend to marry mom, or something?"

"If you mean John, yes, I think that's what happened." Castiel prefers not to bring up that the marriage was the one thing he and Michael never talked about. Castiel was—is—fond of Mary, but losing Michael to her had always stung a little. The open kindness of Mary's spirit toward him when his memory had been more incomplete now makes a bit more sense. "Michael lived here. Your mother came often, of course, but she lived in town with John, and you." Castiel frowns. "I think I remember you being born."

Dean shifts a little away from him. "Yeah, 'cause that's not weird at all."

"That's not what I mean," Castiel says quickly. "I mean I remember Michael, when you were born. I don't think I ever saw him happier. I don't remember much of Sam—"

"Yeah, he was a few months old during the fire."

"—but I remember him talking about you. A lot." Castiel smiles lazily. "You were always a gardener."

"Yeah," Dean says, and it sounds like a sigh. "So was mom. I miss her."

Castiel wishes to return the sentiment, but he feels like doing so would be hollow, somehow. "They met here, you know. Your parents."

Dean shifts a little next to him, sitting up, dragging Castiel's bound arm up with him. "You mean, the greenhouse? Or the house?"

"The greenhouse. Michael built this place with me." Castiel shrugs. "Lawrence had a food shortage. He had an idea—build greenhouses that could weather crops during all seasons. Of course, one greenhouse can't feed everyone in town, but—"

"—that's a brilliant idea," Dean says. "Why didn't anyone else think of it—do it?"

"Glass is expensive. It breaks." Castiel leans back, hoping Dean will take the hint and settle back onto the ground; his spine is protesting the position they're in. "Michael spelled the glass. Weather can't break it. Demons can't. Humans, clumsy as they are, still can—but it's thick. It's withstood a lot."

"I'll say," Dean says. "And mom met him when he was—building?"

"Your mother picked wildflowers and herbs for poultices. She stumbled across this place. I was—absent." Well, actually he'd been in the house recovering. His free hand drifts to the deep scar tissue at his hip, still covered by feathers, and he suppresses a sense memory before it makes him shudder. "She could not help Michael at that point, but she and I together planted everything in here."

Dean's eyes find Castiel's in the dark. "Thanks, Cas," he says after a short pause. "For remembering. And telling me."

"No problem." Castiel yawns hugely and continues to push his arm down. Dean must not be as body conscious as Castiel is.

"Well, the night's half gone," Dean says, finally slumping onto his back to stare at the stars through the greenhouse glass. He's right; the moon has moved and shrunk, indicating that it's closer to dawn than sunrise. "What do we talk about now?"

Castiel shifts to his back as well, his arm grateful for the relief of pressure. Polaris glitters like a diamond. He smiles at it. "You could tell me about yourself."

"Not much to tell, really."

Castiel glances over at Dean. "You're not being fair. Also, you're lying."

"Fine, fine," Dean says. "What do you want to know?"

Castiel thinks for a moment. "Who are you? What do you do? Why did you choose to come here?"

Dean holds up his free hand to stem the flow of questions. "I got three, you get three. It's only fair."

"Didn't realize we were counting," Castiel mumbles.

"Oh, shut up," Dean says, but there's no heat in it. "I'm fucking tired. But okay." He yawns widely, then says, "Well, as to who I am…I sell hides. And herbs. Sometimes meat. I get it all from the forest." He sighs. "I didn't used to do much of anything. I was pretty stupid when I was younger."

Castiel is annoyed at Dean's self-deprecating comments, but doesn't know the best way to correct his perceptions. Instead, he focuses on his original question. "That tells me what you do—did—not who you are."

"Then clarify the fucking question."

"You're profane when you're tired."

"I'm profane all the time. You're just slow to notice things."

Without fully intending to, Castiel's free hand balls into a fist that connects gently with Dean's shoulder. Dean grins and asks, "Okay, what's the question again?"

"I asked who you are. I thought you said you were a hunter." Michael had been a hunter. And Mr. Singer. And Mrs. Harvelle. And everyone else Castiel had known passably well. More monsters than Lucifer had haunted these woods, once. As for Castiel—his mother had wanted him to be a priest. He knows that every hunter has a story, usually tied in some way to their identity or values, and he is eager to hear Dean's.

"That's a side job," Dean says. "I used to hunt with my dad a lot, when I was younger, before he—well." He swallows, then continues, "I started hunting game and searching for herbs in the forest after mom died, just as a hobby—to bring in a little extra money. I knew the forest wasn't dangerous." He glances sidelong at Castiel. "Well, I thought it wasn't. Anyway, I got older, started killing some pretty nasty shit. Got hurt a lot. Had nightmares." He shrugs, shifting Castiel's arm along with his own. "So I cut back on that. Focused on hunting game and harvesting. Safer."

"And your brother?" Castiel prompts after Dean is silent for a bit. "Was he a hunter, too?"

"Yeah, kinda," Dean says. "I fought like hell to keep him out of it." He lifts his free hand upward, like he's trying to touch a star. Castiel spots Venus, but that's probably not the one he's reaching for. "Actually, I have two brothers. Adam's the other—half-brother anyway." Dean blinks a few times. "Actually—he's my cousin, isn't he?"

Castiel runs the relationships through in his mind and nods.

"That explains a lot," he mutters. "Adam's a little shit sometimes, but he and Sam are the smart ones. They listened to the stories and stayed out of the woods."

"What stories?"

Dean faces him again, grinning a little, and his skin, though rough, is warm when it brushes Castiel's face. Castiel leans closer; they are breathing one another's air. "That's right," Dean says in a hushed tone. "You haven't heard them. I think they're about you."

Castiel leans his head at a slight angle. "Don't believe everything you hear."

"I didn't believe in any of that shit," Dean says. "'S why I'm here, really." Dean moves up onto his shoulder to look at Castiel again, and Castiel finds that attention—uncomfortable. Piercing, and familiar. "You wanted to know why I'm here," Dean says. "I pulled Sammy from the fire that gutted Lawrence. Ever since then, I've been responsible for him." Castiel watches Dean's Adam's apple move for a few tense seconds. "If my dad had come," Dean says like the words are strangling him, "the family would have lost everything. Sam would have lost everything."

Castiel nods cautiously. "Yet they consider it an acceptable risk. To lose you to the monster in all the stories." Castiel can't take Dean's stare: he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wonders how people determine value, meaning, in their own lives.

Dean's life has meaning, and purpose—and he's willing to throw it all away for everyone else.

It reminds Castiel of himself. Dean is taking everything he knows and remembers, and making it twist like a knife in a gut wound.

"It's not like that," Dean says, denial automatic. "I should have listened to the stories maybe, but—" He pauses. "No. I'm glad I didn't."

They lie there, silent. Castiel opens his eyes so that they are staring again, but the feeling between them is comfortable, suspended gently in an almost timeless way. Castiel wants to lean forward, get closer, but he freezes where he is and says in a voice no louder than a whisper, "I'm glad you didn't, too."

Before Dean can respond, a thin shaft of dawn light, pink-yellow, refracts overhead, causing miniature rainbows. "Christ, I'm tired," Dean says. "I'm gonna get some sleep. Morning, Cas."

Castiel freezes, but he answers, "Good morning," in a tone of dread. Lucifer could emerge. He could emerge now.

Minutes pass. The sun rises. He doesn't change.

The moment he realizes Lucifer can't break through Dean's hold, Castiel is asleep.


	28. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some body horror and (past) mutilation in this chapter. I've tried to keep it mild and brief, but in my experience it's better to tag than not.

Dean shakes Castiel awake out of a dreamless sleep, hand clutching his shoulder, voice sounding panicked. "Holy shit, Cas!"

"What?" Castiel mutters. The sun in his eyes is the bright and piercing sun of winter; he slams his eyelids shut and keeps them down. "What is it?"

He doesn't want to get up. He's warm, he's comfortable, Dean's touching him—

Shit. Dean's touching his _back._ Without the feathers, the scarring there is visible. God dammit.

"Cas," Dean breathes, voice soft, "who the fuck did this to you?" Skin lifts and peels painfully from his spine where Dean's fingers brush it, and Castiel pulls away from the touch with a gasp.

Castiel hasn't seen the scars in years, but he remembers what they look like. His entire back is white and raised; even as a bird, he'd molted there more often than anywhere else. The feathers of Lucifer's transformation had served to hide that damage, but his skin had never forgotten it.

"Lots of people," he says in a low tone that brooks no argument. With his free hand, he tugs down his shirt; Dean presses his palm into the small of his back to keep the marred skin exposed. "Let me sleep."

"No." Dean moves his hand and tugs at Castiel's arm, where they are still bound together; he twists so that he's looking at Castiel, free hand gripping his shoulder hard. "Tell me."

Castiel sighs, blinks, loosens Dean's punishing grip on him and nods. How to approach this? "Did I ever tell you—why I became a painter?"

Dean's mouth opens, then closes. Finally, he says, "No. You haven't."

His tone is impatient, but Castiel is happy to be indulged. "Painting is discipline," he says. "It's focus. I used it to capture the things I loved the way children capture insects in a jar." He looks up at Dean, looking for his reaction, his comprehension, but his face is unreadable. "Starting when I was very young, I was told that the things I loved and wanted were wrong. Unnatural."

"Religious freaks, I swear to fucking God," Dean says under his breath, and Castiel gives him a fond smile.

"Well, that was certainly part of it." Castiel knows his Bible, the parts on homosexuality in particular. However, he can also recite passages on the mortal sin of wearing clothes made of wool and linen mixed together, or of eating shellfish. Or about slavery and the rampant butchery of children in God's name. If he's going to Hell because of who he is, then so is everyone else.

His own identity had caused him little inner trouble because he'd always been able to recognize who he was—a useful trait, in an artist and a person. His trouble had come from outside—his parents, his tutors, and, eventually, his friends. It's hard to say who'd hurt him most, but he'd put even money on his mother.

"In any case," Castiel says shakily as Dean moves the hand dislodged from Castiel's shoulder back to the base of his spine, "I cultivated discipline through painting. My parents didn't object to portraits."

"But they objected to other things?" Dean is positively antsy now, feet moving in a strange rhythm that jars Castiel slightly where they're bound together. "What did you need discipline _for_ , Cas?"

He swallows. Dean is determined to rush him, and he's danced around this for too long. "You've seen my picture of Michael," he says levelly.

"He posed for you," Dean snaps, clearly not following the trend of the conversation.

"No." Castiel looks up. "That's the only painting I've ever done from memory."

Dean stares at him for a solid ten seconds before asking, exasperated, "Why the hell are you telling me this? What does it have to do with your back?"

"I didn't want to capture Michael in a jar," he says, a little sadly. "But I was in love with him. I didn't want him to know, but he knew it. My mother found out, drugged me and beat me bloody for three days straight." And this is the first time he's ever told anyone about it.

Michael hadn't found out. He'd been on his honeymoon. By the time he and Mary had gotten back, Castiel had been able to walk again, and his mother had been battling her last illness. There had been no need to burden him or anyone else with the knowledge of what had happened.

"Shit, Cas," Dean says. "I'm sorry, I—" And now looking him directly in the eyes, hand pressing them together, and Castiel doesn't know how to look away from this.

In his mind, he sees it happen. He snakes his hand around Dean's waist, pulling their bodies flush as he leans in. He presses his lips to the skin of Dean's jaw and moves down—or maybe up, to kiss Dean on the mouth. Maybe Dean would kiss him back, warm and wet and open. They're already half-down; it would be so easy to maneuver Dean on top of him, their bound hands meeting, fingers interlacing as the heat between them built higher.

Castiel has imagined this situation before, with another man, and the realization holds him still as Dean stares at him and holds their chests together.

Finally, Dean shatters the tenseness of the silence with a breath. "I remember that picture," Dean says. "Of Michael. He looked like me."

"Yes," Castiel says. "You look very much alike. Hardly surprising."

"But we're not the same person," Dean says, and his tone is gentler now, less impatient. "The painting shows that. I got the sense from your painting that Michael was part of his environment. At home in the forest. Alone."

"Yes. Of course, that was before he met Mary. That's how he was, then. It's how I painted him."

Dean shifts back a little, smirking in a way that makes Castiel want to slap him. "Really?" he asks in a contemptuous tone. "Why would he be like that? He had you. He had to know how you felt. Why should he be alone there—anywhere?"

"He was because he was," Castiel says irritably. "After Lawrence ostracized him, he just gave up for a while. That was always Michael's problem: he wanted to be good, but no one would let him prove it."

"That's what he told himself," Dean insists, "but he was full of shit. Aside from Sammy, I've never had a friend that would stick their neck out as far as you did for him. That had to mean something. He owed you."

"Maybe," Castiel concedes. "I don’t think he saw it that way."

"So, what? He exploited you? Used you up because he knew you'd tolerate it? That's sick, Cas."

This is not at all the direction Castiel had anticipated his revelation would take this conversation, and Castiel is momentarily perplexed. Apparently the town's homophobic indoctrination had not penetrated too deeply into Dean's thinking. Or maybe Castiel's own self-hatred is too ingrained. "I don't know what to say," he says, because that's honest. "I wanted to do it. Despite never really getting what I wanted. Despite—everything." Certainly, Castiel's life would have been different, and in many ways better, if he and Michael had never met. "I guess I was—am—weak."

"No," Dean says. The denial is firm. "I don't buy that. You've hosted a fucking demon for decades for this guy, and that didn't destroy you." He sounds angry again, and Castiel flinches away from him; Dean brings his bound hand up to Castiel's chin to hold him still. "Don't call yourself weak again."

Castiel nods uncertainly. He is accustomed to orders.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Dean says, letting go of his face. "I get like my dad sometimes. Don't listen to me when I do that. I think I'm right, but I didn't live your life." His eyes peek to Castiel's shoulder, partially exposed by his shirt, and Castiel knows he is looking at his scars. "Is there anything else—anything else to see? Did they hurt you—more?"

Castiel sighs. "Yes. But I would rather you not see it."

Dean shakes his head. "Who the hell hated you so much?"

Everyone, it seems. Except Michael. And Dean. And a few others that were, and are, fairly indifferent to his existence. Even Lucifer hates him.

Castiel shrugs. "I need to get up and pee," he says.

Dean nods slowly, then chuckles, diffusing some of the tension. "Yeah, me too. Let's get up."

 

***

 

After what is possibly the most awkward back-to-back piss of his life, Castiel stands facing Dean. "We can't live like this."

"Yeah, I know," he says, "but we don't exactly have a lot of options. I know a few exorcism rituals, but I doubt they'd work—I don't have any magic, and the words only work on normal demons." He thinks for a moment. "Is there a way to talk to someone in town? Sam, maybe? Bobby?"

"No." Castiel has tried to send messages before, and has always been unsuccessful. He still wants to make contact with a demon hunter in town, though—how had he thought to accomplish that?

"C'mon, there must be a way."

"The ravens," Castiel breathes, remembering his own plan. "You can tie a message to them. They can go to Lawrence. There's no guarantee the message will go through, though."

And not in time. There's no way they could get help from Lawrence in less than three days. They can keep going as they are for a little while, but eventually, Dean is going to slip up, and Lucifer is going to kill him.

"Good idea. If only we had paper." Dean frowns, then pulls Castiel into a sitting position. Castiel follows him down clumsily, and Dean cuts the bindings on their wrists, but maintains contact, thumb and forefinger wrapping around the narrowest part of his hand.

This feels—dangerous. Castiel's left hand settles on Dean's shoulder, finding a patch of bare skin in his ragged clothes.

"I got you, don't worry," Dean mutters. "I'm just thinking about how to do this."

"What do we need to do?"

"Just sit here, and don't move," Dean says, eyes darting between Castiel's face and the amulet, which he's clutching in his free hand. "Bobby has a talisman that looks like this. It holds a strong protective spirit—Bobby said angels but that seems kinda silly." Dean's expression becomes serious and intense. "I don't know how to exorcise this damn thing, but I might be able to attach you—just you—to the amulet's power. Extract you."

"And let Lucifer free?"

Dean nods slowly. "It shouldn't—but it might. Our options aren't great. But I'm not leaving you here. Not with him."

"All right," Castiel says resignedly. He doesn't honestly expect anything Dean will do to work, and he certainly doesn't want to get his hopes up. "Let's try it."

The spell takes most of that day to prepare. Castiel convinces Dean to make the devil's trap around the tree with his blood mixed in, in case of the highly likely probability that Lucifer will break free once they're no longer touching. Dean starts off dragging Castiel from place to place to retrieve what he needs, tugging his arm awkwardly—until Castiel starts tugging back.

"Dude, I need my stuff from the greenhouse."

 "Yes," Castiel snaps, annoyed at being awakened early and talked into such a risky plan. "But you don't need to take my arm off."

Dean appears more ashamed than the situation, perhaps, warrants, but he stops yanking Castiel to and fro like a rag doll. Retrieving supplies from the greenhouse is a cooperative effort, accompanied by much cursing, but they get it done.

From what Castiel can determine, the spell's ingredients are simple, but its language and symbols are complex; he spends much time reading over Dean's shoulder, trying to comprehend what, exactly, they're trying to do. The spell itself is called Transference, which sounds promising—if Castiel understood just what was being transferred.

Once Dean realizes he can read—and really, he should have figured that out much sooner, given what he knows of Castiel's profession and early life—he allows him to start carving symbols in a circle around the devil's trap. They've barely started before Castiel realizes the necessity of space and distance markers; they don't want to run into one another before they've completed the necessary symbols.

"Good catch," Dean says. "Sammy might've thought of that."

Castiel takes this as high praise. The work would go faster with the work of two pairs of hands instead of just one, but neither one of them wants the consequences of letting go too soon. The circle of symbols complete, Castiel takes the precaution of dribbling his blood over them in a slow arc from a shallow wound. Dean looks away from him the entire time.

It's late afternoon when the preparations are finished, and Dean prepares one more hasty meal before they attempt the spell itself.

He shoves food at Castiel, who ignores it. "I read the spell," he says. "Transference."

"'Course you did," Dean says around a mouthful of spinach. "What's your question?"

"What does it do?"

Dean shrugs. "You were best friends with a witch. You tell me."

Stung, Castiel looks down. Dean doesn't apologize, or say anything else, but his hands are shaking; Castiel feels the one connected to him practically vibrating with the force of Dean's attempts to hold still. "What is it?" he asks.

"What's what?"

Castiel doesn't dignify the evasion with a direct response; he knows something's wrong. "Is it just the spell, or something else?"

"Just the spell," Dean says, relaxing fractionally. His hands stop shaking, and he breathes deep. "Let's do this thing."

Castiel stands inside the edge of the Devil's trap, and Dean cuts the binding at their wrists. For the first time in more than a day, Castiel's hand is free, and it chooses that exact moment to cramp horribly, spasming so much two knuckles lock and turn white. He takes a deep breath and waits for the change.

It doesn't happen. He stands there, Dean facing him, as the sun goes down—and Castiel remains human.

"Isn't he supposed to come out, or something?" Dean asks impatiently. He's fiddling with the amulet around his neck, distracted.

"He usually comes out at night." Usually. This entire situation is unusual. He wouldn't be surprised if Lucifer chooses to remain hidden, curled into a ball in Castiel's mind—until the ideal time to strike, or escape, using Castiel's body and relative innocence as a shield.

The last light winks out on the horizon before Castiel feels the tell-tale growth of feathers and the elongation of his spine to make room for the wings. "Dean, it's starting," he gasps, then falls, pushing himself farther into the devil's trap and the spell circle.

Lucifer shoves him backward in his own mind, and though Castiel tenaciously attempts to remain conscious, rooted in the world of the real, the effort proves too great. Lucifer banishes him to the place of half-forgotten memories in a state of timeless suspension; Castiel can see and do nothing.

If Lucifer has his way, he might be stuck here forever. Or until someone—or something—kills Lucifer.

Though helplessness galls him, Castiel can't do anything but wait.

 

***

 

One of the advantages of Castiel's suspended state is that he can't entirely tell how much time passes—much or little—between going "under," as he thinks of it, and surfacing. He figures it must be the same for Lucifer, and breathes a private sigh of relief; Lucifer had likely not been able to spy on him for the past day or so.

Lucifer. Castiel spreads out his dark wings and touches his demonic body. The symbols surrounding him are white-red with remembered fire, allowing himself a good view of his transmogrification. He had changed, and changed completely, back into Lucifer's host—but he's in control now. Castiel reaches for the place inside him that usually houses the demon, and finds it cold and empty and dead. "Where are you?" he asks.

"Here," a voice says out of the dark—not Lucifer's voice, but Dean's. Castiel stumbles up from sitting to standing, and identifies a dark space lying on the symbols that looks like a body.

"Dean," Castiel says.

"Good to see you, Cas," he says. "Help me up."

Castiel extends one wing carefully, and Dean takes it; the wing pops and shrinks into his hand. Dean grabs Castiel's other shoulder for balance, lurching forward, and Castiel has the same problem he had the last time this happened: bottom-heavy, unbalanced, and so supremely uncomfortable. Dean notices the problem immediately and touches his legs. Castiel can now walk—albeit slowly, on his talons.

"Almost forgot what you looked like," Dean says wryly, and Castiel makes a face that is wasted on the darkness.

"Did it work?" Castiel asks. "I don't feel Lucifer. What did you do."

"Yeah, it worked," Dean says. "Bad news is, you're still bound to Lucifer. Good news is, he can't control you anymore."

"You're sure?"

"I can be. Do you hear Lucifer talking? Is he there?"

"No."

"Then yes, it definitely worked. We did it. It's—amazing, Cas."

No. It's miraculous. It's awe-inspiringly impossible and wonderful and Castiel feels about to burst for joy. "Come with me," he says. "I want to show you something."

His special project for Dean, completed.

"Wait a sec, Cas, wait—"

Castiel stops, turns, and sees what had made Dean lean on him so heavily: one of Lucifer's blows had caught him in the leg, and though he's limping forward he's clearly in no condition to walk—far, at least. Castiel rushes back to him and throws Dean's arm over his shoulders, using the leverage to lower Dean and check his leg.

This would be easier if the sun were still out; as it is, Castiel has to go mostly by feel and the dying light of Lucifer's fires around the spell circle.

"What happened?" Castiel asks.

"What do you mean? You were here."

Castiel shakes his head. "When Lucifer—emerged—he pushed me down. Away. I couldn't see. I—" He doesn't know what else to say.

"Well," Dean drawls, "that explains some things." He pushes his leg out to its full extension. The bones feel intact, but the skin surrounding Dean's ankle has the texture of a swollen pig bladder: tender, moist, and uncomfortably warm.

"I don't think it's broken," Castiel says. "Sprained, though. Can you walk?"

"Of course I can," Dean says.

Castiel helps him up using his two fists, and Dean stumbles into him, his damaged ankle galloping up and down with a thud as he tries to find his balance. Castiel more than half-carries Dean back to the greenhouse, but he lets Dean "walk" as much as possible. It's likely a matter of pride.

Castiel is proud of them. Lucifer is no longer in control. Dean's spell had worked.

Perhaps he had more magic than Castiel initially had given him credit for.

Once they arrive back at the greenhouse, Castiel props open the glass door with one foot and ushers them both inside. Dean collapses haphazardly in the corner almost immediately, and takes a deep breath. "Wish it was broken," Dean mutters. "It'd hurt less."

That's true. When Castiel's mother had broken his tibia, it had hurt considerably less than a sprain to the same area on the other leg. He had walked around on the break for several days before his tutor had noticed and put him in a cast, immobilized.

"Yeah," Castiel says, "but you'll heal faster." Castiel retrieves the boiled rags that he and Dean usually use for bandages. He dips them in a bit of cool dew from the roses and begins binding the ankle—not too tight, but the chill water might help the swelling go down, and the bracing will keep Dean from injuring the ankle further while it heals. That done, he helps arrange Dean's limbs a bit more evenly on the bed, and Dean yawns.

When Castiel makes no move to join him on the bed, Dean asks, "Aren't you going to sleep?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Forgive me—I'm—I'm kind of excited, you understand? I have my body back. It's—" There isn't an adjective superlative enough.

Dean nods and yawns again. "Suit yourself. Just don't wake me up."

"I'll be quiet." Castiel gently pulls Dean's injured leg straight; Dean hisses briefly but otherwise shows no signs of pain. Castiel is about to let go when he notices it: a subtle shaking vibration. He looks up, and sees Dean's shoulder twitch slightly.

Dean is shaking.

"Dean," Castiel says, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean says.

"You're shaking. Are you bleeding? Hurt somewhere else? I can get more bandages—"

"Leave it, Cas," Dean says, twitching his leg out of Castiel's grip. "I was just fucking scared, okay. I'm better now. Calming down." He takes an audible breath. "Sometimes it takes a while."

Castiel tilts his head to the left slightly in question. "You were scared? Of what?"

Dean shrugs, and winces when the movement tracks down his spine to his hips and legs. "Fire. Demons." Uncharacteristically, he avoids Castiel's eyes as he says, "You asked what I was worried about," Dean says. "Before."

"Before the spell." Castiel remembers. He remembers Dean being pissed at the mere insinuation of worry. Apparently something's changed. "Do you want to tell me now?"

"I was worried about you getting hurt," Dean says, and it's quiet, but every word is distinct. He snorts. "Guess I was worried about the wrong person."

Castiel checks the bandaging on his leg and notes that the swelling is going down. A slight flesh wound above the ankle has stopped bleeding; cauterization from Lucifer's fire had doubtless helped with this. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be fine in a few days."

"Yeah." Dean yawns hugely, then reaches out to grab Castiel by the hand. "I'm glad it worked, but I'm tired. See ya later, Cas."

Dean's eyes close, and Castiel leans forward on impulse to kiss him on the forehead. Memories of fever and friendship and care wash over him, and he understands, to his bones, that Dean is his friend. Dean cares about him.

And Dean is asleep.

Castiel arranges their blanket over him, careful not to disturb him. He's too wound up to sleep; Lucifer is still in him, demanding control from behind an impenetrable wall, sending a burning chill under his skin like illness—but his movements and actions are his own. The amulet around his neck burns with a faint heat. His soul is in this object—sealed away from Lucifer's.

Castiel uses the night to prepare his project for Dean. He's grateful for the time; though the project had been ready, more time gives him the ability to plan it, make it more special. Dean deserves something special.

One of these days, Castiel promises himself, he will ask Dean what it is about him that made him stick his neck out for him like that. He recalls Dean using the same phrasing regarding himself and Michael, and hopes the answer isn't that Dean thinks he owes him.

Dean owes him nothing. He'd saved Castiel.

When his preparations for the morning are done, Castiel prepares a raw meal from the garden and places his back to the glass. His shirt rides up, exposing bare skin, and it's soothing; the glass doesn't burn.

It's not quite freedom, but it's the closest thing he's had in a long time.

 

***

 

The next morning dawns cold and cheerless, the sky as gray as shale. Castiel doesn't care. It's the best morning he's witnessed in years, because he's viewing it through his own eyes. Not Lucifer's. The sun drags itself up through the sky, and a little after sunrise it starts raining, the patter of the droplets creating an almost musical sound.

Appropriate, Castiel thinks.

Dean is roused by the sound of the rain, and Castiel helps him sit, then stand. Once he is standing, Castiel retrieves a dead piece of wood some four feet long and a few inches wide: a dead sapling, or particularly strong remnant of a vine. With its help, Dean can walk; he goes outside to relieve himself.

Once he's left, Castiel crawls back to the flowerbeds and moves the leaves and debris that have been covering his project away. He hums a tuneless tune—alas, proficiency in one art does not always assist with proficiency in others—and the tiny rose in front of him begins its own tuneful melody, petals moving slightly with the sound.

The flower is singing. He's seen it do this before, briefly, but he's usually had to hush it so Dean wouldn't see. Now, he doesn't have to, and he runs his hands carefully around the bulbous base of the blossom, down the stem. The music gets louder, approving.

The greenhouse door opens behind him—Dean's back—and his hands jerk away from the flower reflexively. There's a jarring pause in the music, a sixteenth note missed, before the dark rose continues its sweet, even-toned song.

Castiel has never heard the song it's singing before, though [it seems familiar.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMWSRl_m08A) A lullaby, perhaps, in a major key—or a love song.

"What the hell is that?" Dean asks from the doorway.

"Come see," Castiel says, unwilling to leave the flower now that he no longer has to hide it.

Dean walks over, the greenhouse soil muffling his footsteps. Castiel feels his eyes boring into his back. He turns.

Dean is directly behind him—only a few inches away. When Castiel shifts, Dean crouches down, next to him so that they're almost touching, but Dean has no attention for Castiel. He stares down at the flower in shock, mouth slightly ajar, and Castiel smiles. He's never really surprised anyone before. It's—pleasant. "Do you like it?"

Dean blinks—once, twice—and shifts his attention away from the flower to look at Castiel. "You—taught a flower to sing," Dean says softly.

"Yes," Castiel replies. "When I was trying to convince you I was real, you mentioned it, so—"

Dean holds up a hand, requesting silence. Castiel's jaw snaps closed. "How?"

Castiel shrugs, though Dean can't see him. "How does one do anything with magic?"

Dean mouths the word 'magic,' but doesn't say it. He tries again. "Magic—it's all demons, isn't it? All evil?"

Castiel tilts his head slightly, considering. "Not exactly," Castiel says. "While some magic is derived from demonic power, much is not. This particular magic comes from the power already present in the earth. " It is—though Castiel doesn't say it—part of Michael's magic. "Anyone with the gift can awaken a flower." Castiel pauses. "Michael had that gift, not me. I could not have made the flower sing without him." Or Dean. Though there is still magic protecting this place, it's weaker with Michael dead. As he had with Castiel's self-control, he likewise feeds the relative autonomy and life of the garden.

"And the song?"

"Every flower sings a different one."

And now Dean is crying. Shit. "What's wrong, Dean?"

"Nothing," he says, and his voice sounds normal, steady, as tears course down his cheeks and to the floor of the greenhouse. "Not a goddamned thing."


	29. Breakthrough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy kissing and groping at the end of this one. Also violence, blood, character injury to a "good guy" area--the usual stuff.
> 
> Don't like? Don't read.

Dean had not expected to go into his fight with the demon and live.

Truthfully, he hadn't anticipated fighting the demon at all. Though the demonic alter ego he'd sometimes talked to at night had been bitchy to a fault—and he means that with no intended insult toward female dogs—the other one, the one Dean had thought of as "he," had been as kind as possible to him, under the circumstances.

So the attack is sudden, and Dean is aware of just how close he'd actually come to death by demon fury. Freeing Cas—finally, he knows both of their names—had been at least as much in his own best interest as Cas'. Letting Lucifer keep emerging would be a recipe for disaster.

His first night with Cas, though, pressed uncomfortably tight by the rope binding their wrists, had given him a number of unselfish reasons to help. The most important one—Cas' humanity—he had shared, but others presented themselves as well. He'd spent the whole night with Cas, talking the way they had been for months, and he feels almost like the guy's a friend. Someone to go hunting with, or get a beer with. Plant with. Just—someone to do things with, in general.

He hasn't felt so easy with a person since his last lazy day with Sam, when they'd both decided to skip out on work and get hammered at the _Hound and Whip._ There's a reason why Dean had suspected Cas had been a manifestation of his mind—but in hindsight, it hadn't been because of their similarities. He can't quite pinpoint it, but—it's—comfortable, sharing space with Cas.

Finding out more about his parents is a bonus. The more he dwells on what Cas reveals of Michael, though, the more uneasy he gets. Castiel seems like a decent person, setting the rest aside—Dean's known about people like Cas for years, though the only one he knows well is Jody the flower seller. Men who like men and women who like women. He's not troubled by this because it's not his business—except with Cas, it kind of is. He'd been in love with his father, who happens to look a lot like him. Dean's not stupid, or ignorant; he sees how Castiel looks at him sometimes, rapt, attentive, as if his world is shrinking so that the only thing in it is Dean. He knows.

Given this, he's surprised the guy hasn't made a move. Well, not surprised, exactly—the situation is all kinds of awkward, after all—but he's not sure he'd be so restrained in Castiel's shoes. The memory of Castiel's scars—many and terrible—causes blank silence in his own mind; it's something he doesn't know how to think about. If anyone had done something like that to him—or Sam—he would have killed them, resurrected them, and killed them again, but Cas seems to have gotten over that. Somehow. Dean supposes he hasn't spent the last twenty years chained to a demon like Cas has—surely that would teach some pretty excellent self-control.

In the end, setting aside any personal feelings, he arrives at the conclusion that helping Cas is the right thing to do. His dad—his real one—should have tried harder. Dean's familiar enough with failure to know he's being unfair to his father's memory, but it's hard to be fair when his parents' biggest mistake is staring him in the face. They had used their friend: condemned him to an eternal life of slavery to a demon. That may not have been their intent, but Castiel would not be here, like this, if not for them.

 

***

 

The spell he finds to help is one of Bobby's: in the same section as the one that houses the spell that had relieved Karen Singer of her demonic occupant. As Dean sets up the spell, reluctantly dragging Cas everywhere as if he had no autonomy of his own, his focus shrinks, despite Castiel's attempts to ground him—and show him a bit of common courtesy. His help in carving the symbols saves them time: Dean feels half-crippled with his hand lashed constantly to Castiel's.

Once the symbols are done, Dean's stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten since sunrise and retrieves some veggies from the garden to eat raw. He's too on edge to cook; he'll burn himself. He shoves food at Castiel unthinkingly: he knows the guy never eats.

"I read the spell," Castiel says in a tone like a question. "Transference."

"'Course you did." Dean's stomach clenches with something that isn't hunger, and he frowns. "What's your question?" he asks, voice sounding harsh in his own ears.

"What does it do?"

Dean shrugs and looks down; the full attention of Castiel's eyes exacerbates whatever's going on in his gut. "You were best friends with a witch. You tell me."

That’s cold, but Dean doesn’t explain or soften his speech. He's not in a comforting, or comfortable, sort of mood. Castiel looks away, and the knot in Dean's stomach tightens and releases, and he understands that the feeling working its way through him is something close to worry. It's not the same; worry, he knows. Hell, he worries about Sam every fucking day even though they'll probably never see one another again.

This feeling of worry is different, but he doesn't know how, and now is hardly the time to examine it.

"What is it?" Castiel asks, and Dean jumps, thoughts derailed.

"What's what?" His shoulders hunch as he attempts to hold himself rigid. Honestly, it would be easier if the guy didn't care about him.

"Is it just the spell, or something else?"

"Just the spell." Nothing else matters right now. "Let's do this thing."

Freedom from the bindings comes as sweet relief, though Dean's not looking forward to the reappearance of the demon. He expects Castiel to revert to a monster immediately, all the pent-up rage and frustration of Lucifer breaking forth at once, but that's not at all what happens.

It's getting close to sunset; he and Castiel stare at one another uncomfortably, Castiel shifting from foot to foot. "Isn't he supposed to come out, or something?" Dean asks.

"He usually comes out at night."

Dean tangles the cord of the amulet around his fingers and waits.

Maybe the amulet had already destroyed Lucifer somehow. It seems unlikely, but—

Darkness falls. Dean can scarcely see three feet in front of his face, but he hasn't heard the tell-tale shifting and clicking sounds of transformation. Cas is still human. He's about to ask him to come out of the circle when a sussuration like wind through grain sounds loud in front of him, the sound unaccompanied by any breeze.

"Dean, it's starting," Cas gasps; Dean hears a low thud and swallows the knot in his throat. Showtime.

It's difficult to see much in the dark, but the black wings of the demon are unmistakable. The demon approaches the edge of the devil's trap, where the symbols of Dean's spell are carved; Dean picks a log out of the fire and tosses it at the symbols, which catch fire.

Dean hears a hissing noise, strangely reptilian; the demon thrashes and clicks its beak furiously. It tries to take off, fly over the fire, but the barrier of flames rises over it like a dome, keeping it in place. Dean catches a glimpse of talons sharp as steak knives and realizes that Cas has changed completely back into the monster.

"[Sáncte Míchael Archángele,"](http://www.traditioninaction.org/religious/b014rpExocrcism.htm) Dean begins shakily, calling on Michael, the brother of Lucifer, and his father's name—and isn't that funny? "Defénde nos in proélio, cóntra nequítiam et insídias diáboli ésto præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus, súpplices deprecámur."

The hissing from inside the circle becomes a high-pitched shrieking that makes Dean think of tortured children, and he stops for a few seconds, stunned.

"Idiot," the voice of the demon says over the crackling of the flames. "Hell was made for me. Send me back there, and you'll only make me stronger."

True—maybe. But this isn't just an exorcism. It takes Dean a second to find his place again, and in that time Lucifer reaches the edge of the fire, facing Dean directly, eyes red as coals, feathers gleaming in the flickering light. Before Dean can speak again, Lucifer's wing lashes out, catching fire immediately, and the lashing and hissing changes to human screaming. Dean steps back, out of range, but he's not quick enough: the demon's wing grabs his spellbook and flicks it into the fire.

Dean manages to tear out the page he's reading from. The rest is gone.

God fucking damn it.

"Tuque," he starts again, finding his place at last. "Prínceps milítiæ cæléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos."

Something subtle in the air changes: a shift in the wind that has him stumbling back several steps, clenching the spell in both hands so it won't be lost. The screaming gets louder, and Dean's stomach drops.

The voice that's screaming is Cas', not the demon's.

For another second, he hesitates. Lucifer is out of range, and it sounds like he's trying to kill his host rather than be sent back to Hell. So there's nothing for it: Dean's going to have to go in there. Over the fire, over the symbols, to where the demon will have him vulnerable.

 His feet carry him forward almost without his own volition, but he doesn't step into the circle. Not just yet. He finds his place again and reads, "Qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo, divína virtúte, in inférnum detrúde." His voice doesn't shake at all, and he punctuates the end of the page with a loud "Amen" that comes out sounding like a curse.

So much for the invocation: hopefully Michael's listening. Feeling at once idiotic and brave, Dean jumps into the circle of fire.

He isn't burned; the flames are too low for that, and it's not him they want to burn. Lucifer stiffens as soon as he enters, and turns. The demon has no mouth, but the gleam of its beak in the light looks like a knife slick with blood. Dean's spellbook is still smoldering from the fire, but the spell itself is short: he has it memorized. "Tae invoco apro," he coughs, "fundus inferni."

The amulet around his neck gleams like a star, and the sound of Castiel's voice wailing hits him with the force of a blow. He freezes for an instant, and Lucifer attacks, winding one wing around his shoulder and sending the sharp bone of the other into Dean's leg.

Well, that didn't work.

Dean falls, feeling something in his calf tear, and makes himself as small as possible. The light from the amulet grows brighter: so bright he has to close his eyes. Dean yanks the cord over his head and hurls the amulet through the air around him blindly, hoping to catch the demon. He holds the cord tightly, though: the amulet is his last protection, and he's not going to lose it.

Thanks either to Michael or luck, the amulet catches on something solid, and the horrible sound of Cas screaming stops. Dean opens his eyes, just slits, and confirms that the demon has collapsed. The light of the amulet dulls, fades, and goes out, as does the light of the fires around the circle.

Dean collapses onto his back and breathes, hoping that he'd acted quickly enough and that Castiel is still alive.

The spell should have worked. He shouldn't have had to go into the circle and touch Lucifer with the amulet. Doing both had been suicidally risky.

So why had he done it?

Dean closes his eyes and stops thinking. Bigger fish, here. His leg might be broken. Castiel might have died under the pressure of such a difficult exorcism. He has to get up and check.

Dean braces himself on his hands and sits up, and is immediately floored by the sharp pressure moving up his leg. It feels like snakebite times ten. "So much for walking," he mutters, but he has to. For all intents and purposes, he's alone here.

He tries again, and this time he manages to pull himself into a sitting position, relying on the strength of his arms and one good leg to brace the bad one. He makes the shift onto his good leg slowly on the ground, preparing to stand, when he hears coughing.

"Cas?" he calls into the dark.

"Where are you?"

"Here." Dean lets out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Castiel is alive.

Maybe. Or maybe it's a trick of the demon's. The amulet rests reassuringly in his hand, but Dean's still feeling jumpy.

Why hadn't the spell worked the way it was supposed to?

"Dean," Castiel says. Or, it sounds like him. He still looks like the demon.

"Good to see you, Cas," he says. Or hear him, anyway. "Help me up."

Castiel gets two clumsy wings around him, and Dean reaches out carefully, running his hands over Cas' arms and legs so that he'll change into something humanoid again. "Almost forgot what you looked like," he says as Castiel adjusts his grip on him. His ankle hurts, but he'll live.

"Did it work?" Castiel asks.

"Yeah, it worked," Dean says. "Bad news is, you're still bound to Lucifer. Good news is, he can't control you anymore." At least, that is how the spell is supposed to work. He wants to study what difference the changes he'd made would have had—but that spellbook had gone up in smoke. He has a few others; maybe he'll get a lead.

"You're sure?" Castiel asks him, not entirely disguising the tremulousness in his tone.

"I can be," Dean says. He'd memorized portions of the spell, including the matter that explained what it did. There are a few ways he knows to verify that the demon is gone—either to Hell, or into the amulet. "Do you hear Lucifer talking? Is he there?"

"No."

"Then yes, it definitely worked. We did it. It's—amazing, Cas."

It is, but Dean feels oddly numb, as if all capacity for excitement or enjoyment have been sucked out of him. He's probably just tired. His eyes slip closed, then snap open when the grip around him tightens. He makes a shocked noise that Castiel doesn't seem to notice.

"Come with me," Castiel says. "I want to show you something."

He turns to go, leaving Dean where he is. The flames closest to him leap a little. He can't walk. He can't— "Wait a sec, Cas, wait—"

Dean watches Castiel's expression of relief morph into one of concern as he identifies the wound on Dean's leg. "What happened?"

"What do you mean? You were here."

"When Lucifer—emerged—he pushed me down. Away. I couldn't see. I—" He trails off, eyebrows pinched together, shoulders down.

Dean hates that look. He hates that he'd caused it. Naturally, scarcely realizing it, he puts a touch of humor in his tone, hoping to turn the conversation in a better direction. "Well, that explains some things." He pushes his leg out and leans over, gripping the tibia and fibula and working his way down slowly using his fingers. Castiel's hands join his on the leg, hovering over his swollen ankle. Dean's wrist grazes the swelling, and he bites his tongue to keep from making a noise.

"I don't think it's broken," Castiel says. "Sprained, though. Can you walk?"

"Of course I can," Dean says. He thinks he can't, but he hasn't tried yet, so he's going with bravado for now. Yes. Now that he knows Castiel isn't leaving him behind, he's much calmer.

Cas allows Dean to lean on him for balance as he uses his good leg to maneuver. Though Dean knows he's moving slowly, he feels better knowing that he can, in fact, move. He yawns as they approach the greenhouse, wide and frequently.

Definitely just tired. He'll be fine in the morning.

Castiel gets the door to the the greenhouse open using some sophisticated leg trickery that Dean envies in his current state, then drops him none too gently in the corner where they sleep, causing a sharp jolt from his ankle to his hip. "Wish it was broken," Dean mutters. "It'd hurt less." Broken ribs had always hurt him less than sprained ones.

"Yeah," Castiel says, "but you'll heal faster." He putters around nervously, gathering rags and water for bandages; in this mode, he reminds Dean sharply of Sam: the energy, the concern, all makes Dean more exhausted. He shakes the comparison out; it hurts, and it's not fair. Also, it's not quite right. Sam had fussed over him when he got hurt because they're brothers, and he'd done the same for Sam. Brotherhood means putting up with all the shit between them—because, for a long time, they were all each other had. Dad doesn't count; he'd been drunk half the time. In fact, he thinks his dad is worth negative points, overall, in terms of relationships in his life.

The comparison of Castiel and Sam hurts his brain because it makes him acknowledge that Cas cares about him—or, is pretending to. Him. Not Michael.

Cas finishes immobilizing his leg. Dean tests it carefully and finds the binding solid, but not too restrictive; Castiel must have tended wounds like this before. Something to ask about, maybe, if he remembers, but the numbing fog of his brain keeps making him gulp in air like he's drowning for it. Between yawns, he asks, "Aren't you going to sleep?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Forgive me—I'm—I'm kind of excited, you understand? I have my body back. It's—"

Dean nods and yawns again.  The guy is practically bouncing with excitement. He should let him have it. "Suit yourself. Just don't wake me up."

"I'll be quiet."

When Castiel yanks Dean's leg straight, he gasps, but the bones are aligned and whole. Nothing's broken. He takes a few deep breaths, and feels better. Then worse.

Then much, much worse.

He feels it in his hands first: a trembling cold like frostbite. He is trembling, but he isn't cold.

"Dean," Castiel says, hands gripping Dean's shoulder and injured leg. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean says. He squares his shoulders and holds himself absolutely still.

"You're shaking. Are you still bleeding? Hurt somewhere else? I can get more bandages—"

"Leave it, Cas," Dean says, and he jerks so hard he's afraid he pulled a muscle. This hasn't happened to him since—since—

Since his mother died. Since he realized his dad had gone off the rails and that he and Sam were alone. Since before Bobby took them in and tried to help. He's shaking now, but not because he's alone. He isn't alone now—but he's terrified of being alone. The realization is not surprising; there are many reasons Dean assumed Castiel was part of him, and one of those is his great and terrible fear of aloneness. Of being the last one left, because he couldn't save anyone.

But he can't say all that, so he settles for, "I was just fucking scared, okay. I'm better now. Calming down." He takes a deep breath. The fear is there, buried in him, going dormant again—but he doesn't think there's a way to get rid of it. "Sometimes it takes a while."

"You were scared? Of what?" Castiel's expression remains pinched and hollow.

Dean's tired. He's tired and scared and this much emotional honesty is giving him hives. He coughs, winces when the pain lances from his leg to his ribs, and answers, "Fire. Demons." That's not entirely dishonest—his fear of fire is as entrenched as his fear of aloneness, in terms of timescale if not in terms of degree—but it's a cop out, and he knows it.

He's been honest tonight, so far. Maybe he can risk a little more honesty. Maybe if he tells the truth, he'll stop shaking and Castiel will let him sleep. "You asked what I was worried about," Dean says. "Before."

"Before the spell," Castiel says, nodding. "Do you want to tell me now?"

"I was worried," Dean says, and his voice is whisper-soft like he doesn't want his fear to hear him. "About you getting hurt." That's what makes Cas different from Sam. Dean had taught Sam to defend himself. Cas never had that luxury. Gesturing to his leg, he says, "Guess I was worried about the wrong person."

Castiel checks his leg with smooth precision and shakes his head in a firm denial. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be fine in a few days."

"Yeah." Dean yawns hugely, hands falling to either side of him; one of them lands on Cas' hand, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm glad it worked, but I'm tired. See ya later, Cas."

Dean closes his eyes, feeling the brush of something soft against his forehead before he passes out.

 

***

 

When Dean wakes up, he's urgently hungry, thirsty, and needs to piss. Cas generously provides a stick so that he can move around; it's not great, but it's better than having to ask for help every five seconds. His leg has moved from sharp pain to stinging and hot; wherever the bandages let in air, it feels like a nasty sunburn.

Dean takes care of his basic needs—albeit twice as slowly with four times as much cursing as normal—and returns to the greenhouse. Cas is still curiously crouched in the same spot he'd come out of to give Dean his walking stick. Dean hears something faintly musical, like singing, coming from the corner, and is briefly taken aback.

He moves a few steps closer—no easy feat, in his condition—and sees that Cas is perched over one of the greenhouse plants, hands framing it protectively as the strange sounds continue.

"What the hell is that?" Dean asks.

"Come see," Castiel says.

Dean approaches slowly, the stick and soft ground providing comfort for his injured leg. Cas moves a little away from the plant he is shielding, and Dean settles next to him carefully, bending his good leg and descending slowly. He stares down at the flower—a rose at the bottom of a bush, just bloomed, so dark red it's almost purple, and _singing._

"Do you like it?" Castiel asks.

It takes Dean a moment to realize he's been asked a question. His mother had loved roses; he had set his bed in this corner because of their placement here, and Castiel is presenting him with a singing rose.

It feels like a move. It feels like the romantic overture Dean has been expecting from Cas since he'd revealed his feelings for Michael.

Strangely, though, it doesn't feel _wrong._

"You—taught a flower to sing," Dean says, forgetting the question entirely. It's hard to believe what he's seeing.

"Yes," Castiel replies. "When I was trying to convince you I was real, you mentioned it, so—"

Dean holds up a hand, requesting silence. "How?"

"How does one do anything with magic?"

Dean mouths the word 'magic,' but doesn't say it. John had hated magic. Most of the time, he does, too—but this magic seems different. It's beautiful—but what had it cost? What kind of deal had Cas been forced to make in order to get this flower? "Magic—it's all demons, isn't it? All evil?"

"Not exactly," Castiel says. "While some magic is derived from demonic power, much is not. This particular magic comes from the power already present in the earth. Anyone with the gift can awaken a flower. Michael had that gift, not me. I could not have made the flower sing without him."

Michael again, and this time Dean identifies the strange sensation of worry he's experienced since Castiel had told Dean that he'd been in love with Michael.

Unjustified anger? Internal appeals to his own relationship with Cas, and to his own abilities? Loss of control?

That's jealousy, plain and simple. And it feels like shit.

"And the song?" he asks, expecting that Michael had had something to do with that, as well.

"Every flower sings a different one."

Nope. Not about Michael. It's a singing flower that Cas made for _him_ because _he'd_ been convinced that Cas didn't exist. Just how much of an asshole should he consider himself?

He sees the water droplet on the rose before he realizes he's crying.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

"Nothing," he says, and his voice sounds normal, steady, as tears course down his cheeks, onto the flower and to the floor of the greenhouse. "Not a goddamned thing."

Castiel lays a careful hand on his shoulder, light pressure, as if to reassure Dean that he's there. Dean leans into the touch a little, glimpsing the calming blue of Cas' eyes. He could get lost in them, allow them to calm him down, maybe, but he's too far gone for that: he fists his hands in Cas' borrowed shirt and buries his face in his shoulder.

The memory of his mother as she'd been when she'd promised to teach flowers to sing with him hits him clearly, a shard of cruel reality sharpened enough to cut. As the flower sings a high, sweet note that dips into a minor key melody, Cas' hand shifts from his shoulder to his waist, holding him still. Cas' other hand wraps around his back gently, as if he's hugging an injured child. In a way, he is. He keeps his touch light, soothing and constant as Dean practically soaks his shirtsleeve and shakes.

His mom should be here. She'd promised. But she's dead, and—and he doesn't deserve to have this, without her.

At some point—he's not sure how long it's been—Dean comes back to himself and realizes what he's doing. He lets go of Cas' shirt slowly, setting back on his knees and wiping his dripping nose on one sleeve.

Cas looks at him with an expression of concern, and moves his hands to Dean's shoulders, gripping briefly and spidering his fingers down his arms to rest by his elbows. "I'm sorry," he says. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Dean says automatically. "Don't apologize."

Castiel looks away from him. "I've upset you," he says. "I feel I should apologize."

The flower suddenly pauses in its song, then resumes, as if it's starting the melody over again. Like a music box. Cas' gaze flicks to it, and he drops his hands to his sides.

Without entirely understanding what he's doing, Dean grabs both of Cas' wrists and holds on.

Cas flinches for a moment, but doesn't pull away.

"Dean, what is it?"

It's the culmination of Dean's jealousy and crazy risks.

Dean pulls Cas' hands down and leans forward, catching his lips on Cas'. His mouth is open—he realizes that just before he feels it, Cas' chapped lips opening under his as he slides closer, and suddenly all chances of this being innocent or questioning or interpreted as a "thank you" are gone now.

Dean uses his hold to pull Cas closer, tilting his head for a better angle, and their four lips become one burning mouth.

Cas makes a low sound in his throat, breaking free of Dean's hold to thread his fingers in Dean's hair. Dean's hands move to Cas' shirt again, gripping more fiercely this time, the stretch of the fabric revealing some of the skin of Cas' chest. When his shifting hands move over the nub of a nipple, Cas jerks his hips forward into Dean's.

Forced backward a little, Dean pulls back from the kiss, stunned. He tries to move, get up, run away, but his leg, which hadn't hurt a few seconds ago, reminds him of its condition as soon as he tries to stand.

Cas notices this immediately, because Cas notices everything, and reaches out to help him, pausing with his hands right above Dean's shoulders. "Sorry, I should ask," he says softly. "May I help you up?"

Dean's furious with himself. If his jealousy and worry had taught him anything at all, it's that he wants Cas. Maybe not like _that_ , but still—he wants Cas to be his friend, and like him—and _maybe_ more. But he's going about this in the wrong order; unwillingly or not, he's exploited Cas' feelings for his father, and that's twisted and seriously unfair.

He doesn't answer, accepting Cas' help mutely as he gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his walking stick and sets both hands on Cas' shoulders, ignoring the pain in his leg.

Cas seems determined not to look at him, staring at everything but his face.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "Sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I imagine is the Flower Song from Pysna Princezna, which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fMWSRl_m08A


	30. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What follows is the kiss fallout and a rather lengthy lemon. (Well, lime…I don't to penetrative sex without lube, because I'm not a monster.) At least the guys seem into it? Safe, sane and consensual and all… 
> 
> And so, finally, we get to sexytimes! (I know, I made you friggin' wait long enough…but I've never been the sort of writer that just lets the characters fall into bed. Seems irresponsible.) I never thought I would write something so terrifyingly weird. Oh, and there will be angst, because the angst is inevitable. However, we're about ¾ of the way through, so the happy ending is coming! Soonish! Also, uh, technically Castiel is still only half-human so there will be a bit more body horror in conjunction with the sexytimes. Sorry.

"Sorry," Dean repeats, the word hanging between them like a pall: Castiel has no ability to reach beyond it.

Castiel feels Dean's fingers kneading into his shoulders, but he doesn't allow himself to look Dean in the eye. Like Dean, he doesn't know whether he should be apologetic, ashamed, or both. Sweat beads on his forehead and the back of his neck. Castiel had kissed women before his demonic possession, and even a few men, but this is—

Well. This is what he's been afraid of, since the night he and Dean had talked all night in the same bed. He's thought since then that something like this would happen, though he'd never anticipated Dean making the first move. In a way, the fact that Dean had kissed him is a relief. Now that something's really happened between them, Castiel might be able to end things here. He knows exactly how to do it, too—but he's going to have to look at Dean again. He doesn't want to do that, yet. He feels like he's under some sort of spell, and that looking at Dean again will break it.

He doesn’t understand why Dean hasn't pushed him away. Dean's hands remain on his shoulders, his breath ghosting over Castiel's face like temptation gone airborne, and he's not speaking. He's just—standing. Waiting.

It had looked, for a moment, like Dean had wanted to run away. Castiel doesn't find that idea so foreign, himself—but Dean's grip keeps him here, and he'll need to dislodge him if he plans to run.

"What—do you think?" Castiel offers tentatively, eyes flicking up to view Dean's expression briefly before he returns his fixed gaze to the ground. Dean's eyes are open, steady, a little wet and red around the edges from when he'd been crying, and Castiel wants to kick himself for causing that pain.

However, if he's right, he's about to inflict a different, more insidious, and possibly more powerful emotional wound.

"I don't know," Dean says.

Castiel doesn't know, either. The truth is, right now, he'd rather feel than think. It's simpler. His time with Lucifer had taught him to control his mind, but that lesson had never been one he'd wanted to learn.

Like Michael, Dean makes him _want._ He's kissed others before—Michael, even—but he doesn't remember it feeling anything like this. Heated blood rushes through his entire body, reddening his face and making him feel as if he's been scorched. Consumed. Wanted, as well as wanting.

He likes the feeling; it's exhilarating. Unfortunately, he's been conditioned to believe that everything he likes is dangerous—because it usually is.

Dean staggers a little, bad leg collapsing under stress, and Castiel bears his weight for a few seconds as he regains his balance. "Why are you sorry?" Castiel asks, and Dean's hands clasp hard on his shoulders.  Castiel takes a step back, hoping to dislodge Dean, but Dean follows him into his space as Castiel's back hits the glass wall of the greenhouse. A thorn pricks his side, and he shifts a little, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. "Did you think I'd mistaken you for someone else?"

He keeps his tone light and his eyes down. He knows exactly what he's doing, but he needs to be subtler, like the thorns slitting his skin open through his clothes. Delicate, gentle. He wants Dean to be his friend, still; he couldn't stand anything else. Anything more—or anything less.

"Like Michael," Dean mutters, and lifts his palm from Castiel's right shoulder to run his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "Yeah, I guess that's it." Dean's other hand drops to his side, leaving Castiel standing still, untethered, and sweating with either embarrassment or relief.

There's no way Dean wants him. No way. And even if he does, he shouldn't want anything back. It's wrong for too many reasons.

He looks up as Dean backs away, but he can't read Dean's expression. It looks hard, somehow, as if it's been cast in metal. From that, Castiel understands that he's succeeded. Dean won't try to kiss him again.

At least, he hopes not.

              

***

 

Dean avoids him for most of the day—or Castiel avoids Dean.

The result of this is that they keep running into each other.

The greenhouse is an enclosed island of warmth in a world of cold, and there are only so many places to hide within it. Castiel takes up a spot in each of the four corners of the space by turns, but Dean's watering and maintenance of the garden takes him everywhere, so he feels like he's always in the way.

Giving up on remaining inside, Castiel goes to the stream for water. He goes half a mile south from Dean's usual place, only to find Dean there ahead of him ice fishing.

Dean hadn't seen him, but it had been close, and he'd been stuck thirsty, cold and tired for most of the day until evening, when Dean brought some water back in their one good, functional bucket. Later, when Castiel goes to check on his flower, he hears Dean moving behind him, but when he turns to say hello, Dean is gone.

That night, Castiel sleeps alone with his back to the glass, near enough so Dean can't accuse him of avoiding him but not so near that they can see each other in the dark. He dreams of Michael and Mary's wedding, which he hadn't seen in person. He dreams that Michael and Mary kiss one another and go home to sleep in the same bed while he lies downstairs, immobilized by Lucifer's paralysis or another beating: he can't tell what's holding him still. He dreams of his mother chasing him through the house with her wood and leather scourge that stank of blood no matter how often he cleaned and oiled it. He dreams of kissing Michael and rejection. Over everything, Lucifer's laughter plays like a terrible musical accompaniment, omnipresent, softer and louder by degrees.

Castiel wakes with the moon above him and a tightness in his chest. He's been crying in his sleep; the back of his throat feels like parchment paper on fire and there's crust in his eyes. The wall between waking and sleeping cracks a little, and he thinks he hears his mother's footsteps approaching in the dark. He rolls over and sits up, silent as a cat, but doesn't see anyone. All his breath leaves his lungs at once. Since he's up already, he goes to retrieve water from the bucket by the door. He passes Dean on the way and pauses, watching the other man's chest rise and fall. Dean's not having nightmares, at least.

For an instant, Castiel thinks of waking him. Apologizing for his blatant manipulation earlier. Explaining everything. Dean deserves better from him. He crouches down, hand poised above Dean's body, when Dean shifts and opens his eyes.

Dean blinks, then his eyes go wide. "If I didn't know any better," Dean mutters, "I'd say you wanted to knock me unconscious."

Castiel jerks his hand back quickly. "No," he says, stepping back, no threat in him. "I just wanted to apologize. For—earlier." Heat creeps into his face at the memory, arousal and shame mixed together, and he wants to look away from Dean but he knows that won't fix anything. Not now.

Dean nods wearily and sits up. "Well," he says, "technically, I kissed you, so I think I should be the one explaining." He pauses, and there is a twinkling gleam in his eye that Castiel swears is playful. "C'mere. Sit down. I won't bite."

Castiel moves disjointedly toward Dean and settles himself next to him, in the corner of the alcove where the warm air of the greenhouse gathers. He keeps about a foot away, not trusting himself closer, and Dean slides forward a little. "What did you want to explain?" he asks. He wishes he'd just gone back to bed, cold and comfortless as it had been.

"Wait a sec," Dean says. "What did you have to apologize for? Tell me that. I think what happened earlier is my fault—right?"

Castiel spreads his hands in a gesture of near-helplessness. "I don't think it's anyone's fault." The idea that Dean has been assigning blame to himself feels wrongheaded to Castiel. "You know—about what I am. I told you. I didn't know you were—"

"—the same?" Dean takes pity on him; he doesn't have to finish the sentence. Dean smiles a little, and the warmth in it makes Castiel's chest feel tight. "Yeah, me neither. Thing is, I like women. I don't recall liking men the same way, before. But I don't think that's the issue."

"Then what is?" Castiel snaps irritably. He's in no mood for an explanation of his nature; he has no desire to be misinterpreted again. Or punished.

"Point of fact? I like _you_." Dean leans forward and grips his jaw. Castiel squirms his hips backwards, but doesn't break out of Dean's hold. "And you like me, I can tell. Even if it's just because I look like my dad, which is messed up, but." He pauses, thinking. "I don't think that's it. You've been protecting me from that demon since I got here. You let my dad—John—get away."

He forces Castiel's chin up; Castiel stares at Dean's forehead so he won't have to meet his eyes. "As far as I'm concerned, we're a team," he says. "We banished this demon. We'll get out of this place. I want you to come with me." Dean brings up his other hand and settles it carefully on Castiel's cheek.

Castiel's eyes flutter closed. Dean's offering him freedom. It's tantalizing—too much. He shouldn't trust it.

He opens his eyes and feels Dean's gaze boring holes into him, serious and intense. "I'm sorry if I scared you off, or something," Dean says, "but—well, I think you're my friend. Are you?"

It takes a few seconds for Castiel to realize he's been asked a question, and when the question does register, he doesn't want to answer it. Instead, he rolls his eyes and gives himself an internal kick. This is idiotic. He needs to get away from this, now. He can't have friends. Not again. And having Dean be like this—understanding, comforting him—cuts at the part of him that knows that he's wrong.

_Flawed from birth,_ his mother had said. Flawed through the center, like a broken pearl.

"I recognize that look," Dean says. "Thinking about your mom? Or Michael?"

"I'm thinking about myself," Castiel says, hardly louder than a whisper. "I'm a monster. You should hate me."

"Don’t tell me what to do."

Dean moves, hands coming up to grip his shoulders as he pushes his tongue at the seam of Castiel's closed lips. Castiel freezes for a long second—then another—but Dean is insistent, and he needs to open his mouth if he wants to breathe. Dean snakes his hands around Castiel's back, pushing closer, and Castiel opens his mouth and they're kissing, just kissing, without the threat of embarrassment or rejection between them any longer.

Castiel's hands start shaking, moving clumsily over the top of his own thighs; he doesn't know what to do with them. Dean chuckles against his mouth and sets one hand on his own shoulder, guiding the other to his hip. Anchor points made, Dean focuses on the kiss again, probing, but light and teasing too. Castiel's lips catch and pull at Dean's, making gentle sucking sounds as they part briefly for air. Dean is flushed, but smiling, and Castiel can't quite stand it. Dean wants him. This is fun for him. This is—

Dean's arms move around Castiel again in an enveloping hug, and Castiel lurches forward into it, his grip on Dean tightening enough to make Dean gasp. Castiel wastes no time invading his space, attempting to take as much as he can before whatever spell they're under is broken.

Maybe he's dreaming and this is another nightmare. It could turn awful or stop at any time. Castiel is determined to make the most of this.

Dean falls back with his legs spread, and Castiel falls between them, palms on Dean's hipbones as he fights to keep their lips connected. Dean, partially dislodged by Castiel's enthusiasm, shifts one hand to Castiel's hair and another to his shoulder; Castiel gets the feeling that he's holding on for dear life. A scrape of teeth against Castiel's lip registers as pain, and he pulls back a bare inch, breathing hard.

Castiel leans his forehead against Dean's as Dean's mouth seeks his for calmer, softer kisses, and Castiel relaxes his shoulders a little. Dean pushes his hips up, bringing their cocks close through all their layers of clothing, and Castiel full-body shudders against him and bites back a sound he's not entirely proud of.

 Dean's hands go wandering across his chest—Castiel remembers the nipple teasing, earlier—but they don't settle anywhere: they're mapping terrain, conquering new territory. Castiel feels the need to explore as well, but he'd rather get to the point, first. Before Dean changes his mind.

Even if this isn't a dream, he's sure Dean will change his mind.

Castiel blinks sweat out of his eyes and hides his face in Dean's neck. He's hardening against his thigh, making old panic and memories of being beaten for masturbation rise in him, but he swallows those down. He'd been possessed by a demon for decades; he's already going to Hell. "Why are you doing this?" he asks, breathless.

Dean tilts his nose against Castiel's gently, still smiling. "Feel like it," he mutters, and presses his face into Castiel's neck, breathing against his skin as his hands ghost lower. They catch on the hem of Castiel's shirt and pull it up; the fabric gets caught on his shoulders briefly before being tossed away. Dean sits up a little so that Castiel can help him with his own shirt; when both are discarded, Dean pulls him down for a kiss that's near-frantic, hard, deep, relentless.

As Castiel hovers over Dean, chest to chest, the texture of cloth is replaced by the feel of Dean's hot bare skin against his own, and a shock goes down his spine. How long has it been, since he's been touched like this? Has he ever?

Suddenly, the movement of Dean's hands slows. He encounters the hard and scaly skin left behind by Castiel's last transformation: residual, from when he'd had feathers. "That can't be comfortable," Dean mutters against his mouth. The skin falls away, shed like a snakeskin, making a whispering sound like shriveled paper.

"It wasn't," Castiel answers. He steals a kiss from the corner of Dean's mouth.

Dean returns the kiss carelessly and sits up a bit more, pushing Castiel's shoulders so that they they're both sitting up straight. "Where else?" he asks.

"What?"

"Do you have more—skin—like that?"

Castiel swallows, then nods.

Dean's eyes glow like coals. "Show me."

Reluctantly, Castiel shifts a little up and away to remove his pants. Dean helps him when the legs catch on his ankles, and then Castiel sits back down, blushing furiously and wanting to cover himself again.

Dean's already seen his back, but the network of scars his mother had inflicted extend to other body parts as well. She'd been careful not to mark his neck—that showed during church, after all—or his hands and feet, which might also be easily visible to others. She hadn't avoided his face, but she'd never hit or whipped him hard enough to leave scars there.

As for the rest….

His chest, pale to start with, has a paler layer of spiderweb scars from a scourge. Deeper scars, thick with a slick, watery sheen, mark his hips where knives had gored along the bone. (His mother had also been careful of his organs; aside from a popped lung in adolescence, she'd managed to skirt around the edges of all of them). Tiny white lines make a crosshatching pattern on his thighs. His back is worse, but he can't see it. Truth be told, he doesn't look at himself much. It's easier not to.

His feathers, when he'd had them, had grown on top of the scars, and the rough residue of their growth is still everywhere, making the bulk of his own skin rough as sandpaper. He still has feathers covering his nether regions, ass, and the backs of this thighs, though they're thinner now—in the absence of their brethren, they'd started falling out.

Dean's eyes apprise him with a look like cold steel. "You sure your mom's dead?"

Castiel nods. "Positive."

"Would you mind," Dean says, running one hand over his eyes, "if I dug her up again and burned her bones to be extra-sure?"

Castiel shrugs. "I did that already."

The beginnings of a smile make Dean's mouth twitch upward. "Duh, interested in the occult. Of course you did." He sighs. "Where are her ashes now?"

"Lucifer drank them. I'm not sure why."

Dean blinks, nonplussed, and says, "Well, let me see how much of this I can fix." He shifts on his knees so that he's close to Castiel's feet and legs. Fingers curled and slow, as if he's about to pet an animal, Dean places one hand above Castiel's ankle.

Castiel feels his foot seize and crack, a yanking sensation like stabbing and a stubbed toe combined; he makes a pained sound before he can swallow it and flinches, expecting the next blow.

His mother had always insisted that he not make a sound while he'd been punished. God is always listening.

Instead of harming him, Dean takes his hand away in alarm, taking a paper-thin layer of Castiel's puckered skin off in the process. Castiel looks down at his foot a little apprehensively, and sees the healthy blush of new skin where Dean's hand had been.

In addition to lifting the puckering caused by the feathers, the touch had also lifted the scars.

It's Castiel's turn to blink in disbelief. "Are you a healer?"

"I'm as confused as you, dude," Dean says, shrugging. "Can I keep going? That looked a little…intense."

Castiel nods without thinking very hard about it. Dean might be able to restore his body to something that isn't a record of every mistake he'd ever made. He's willing to put up with a lot of pain for the sake of such a restoration.

Despite his willingness, Dean starts slow, moving only one hand over his limbs at a time. The sharp sensations Castiel experiences when touched vary in terms of intensity; all along his tibia, there's a dull ache like a bruise, but at his knee joint there's another shock that makes him bite his tongue.

Castiel watches in astonishment as his legs emerge hale, whole, unscarred.

"It's too good to be true," he mutters.

Dean doesn't say anything, but his expression becomes serious. He sets the heel of his hand above the knee joint and pushes up lightly along Castiel's thigh. His cock responds to the close proximity of Dean's hand, twitching a little, but the rest of Castiel freezes, his overstimulated body forcing him still. A voice like Lucifer's and his mother's combined, strident and cutting, insists that he _stop_. Leave. Run.

Run where?

Paralysis keeps him still so long that Dean pulls away from him a little, hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder. "You okay, Cas?"

"No," he manages, whisper-soft. "You shouldn't—"

"Again with the telling me what to do?" Dean asks, light and easy, but when he takes a second look at Castiel he frowns. "We can stop. If you want. I won't—force you to do anything you don't want."

Castiel nods but doesn't trust himself to speak. "I'm sorry—it—" He ducks his head and sits up.

Dean hms and wraps one arm around Castiel's shoulders, not in a sexy way, but in a way that's confidential. Confiding. Intimate. Castiel remains frozen, unsure of what to do. Dean stays still and breathes with him, the rise and fall of his chest steadying and warm. Then Dean says, "When I was a kid, I caught Jody the flower seller half-naked with another woman behind Bobby's shop," he says. "When I told Bobby, he said I should never tell anyone else. That they'd kill Jody. The other woman, too. Is that what you're afraid of?"

Castiel nods jerkily and says nothing. It's not what he's afraid of, not all of it, but it's a starting point.

"Cas," he says, "we're alone here. They can't get us. Besides that, I know you can protect yourself. You're not a kid anymore. You're not evil."

At this, Castiel looks up at him, eyes wet and heavy. He feels like they're about to drop out of his head. Dean keeps his arm around his shoulder, bringing his other hand to the hollow of his collarbone. It's a tender touch, one Castiel doesn't deserve.

" _We're_ not evil," Dean says. "This is not wrong. Jody is _not_ wrong."

"I don't know Jody," Castiel gibbers like a moron, sucking snot up through his nostrils. He's crying fully while trying not to, and the effort makes his head feel like their eternally leaking bucket.

"And what? You don't trust me all of a sudden?"

"It's not that," Castiel says, words garbled by tears. "It's not. I trust you."

Dean nods against his shoulder, the whispering touch of hair soft on skin. He wants to paint it. He wants to paint everything. He pulls Dean against him in a tight hug, which Dean returns just as fiercely.

"You're okay," he says. "You're human again. You're okay."

Castiel pulls back a little, using his nose as a rudder to find Dean's and kiss him properly. It's messy at first; his tears are still on his face, so the kiss is slick with more than just spit. Dean lets him lead, responding to Castiel's movements in the same light, easy way as earlier. Gently, slowly, he pushes Castiel down and lies beside him, both hands moving languidly over the skin that hasn't yet been healed.

The transformation of his elbows causes him more trouble—the big joints, it seems, have weathered deeper damage—and when Dean lifts the puckered scarring under his ribs, it sends a jolt to his lungs. Dean talks to him through it, mostly asking how he feels, and Castiel says as little as possible, his own hands twitching at his sides.

"Okay," Dean says. "Flip over. I'm gonna fix your back."

Castiel shifts over slowly and feels Dean's hands connect with his raised spine. The sharp cracking sound that had accompanied the healing of his ankle returns, and Castiel feels it reverberate from the base of his skull to the bones of his hips. He passes out—but he doesn't make a sound.

 

***

 

When Castiel comes to, it's full dark, and one of his and Dean's shared blankets is pulled up over his shoulders. Dean's lying next to him, under the other blanket, not touching him but still close. Castiel pushes himself a little closer to him, and the effort makes his back ache like he's pulled it.

Cautiously, he runs a hand over what was once the most damaged part of his body. The skin is smooth and even. Everything he can touch has the same feel, consistent, uniform, like fresh canvas. A new start.

Dean's sleeping. He should let him sleep.

This resolve lasts Castiel approximately ten seconds. Then he grips Dean's shoulder lightly and shakes him. "Dean."

"Mm," Dean grunts, rolling over. "Tired. Go to sleep."

"It's me," Castiel says. "I'm awake. You did it."

"Wha?" One eye cracks open, and Dean sits up fluidly, back straight, eyes very alert for someone who'd just been sleeping. "Yeah, I saw. Looks better. How's it feel?"

Castiel considers a hundred words in a moment, but none of them are good enough. He grabs Dean by both shoulders and kisses him. Dean pushes up and into the kiss, grinning against his mouth.

"Glad you're okay," Dean mutters around Castiel's attacking lips. "Had me worried."

Castiel pulls back a little at that, frowning a little. "Worried?"

"You passed out. Didn't even scream. It was freaky."

_God is always listening._

And watching.

Well, he's about to get an eyeful.

"I'm fine," Castiel says. "Better." Somewhat stunned by how bold he feels, he skirts one of his hands beneath Dean's blanket and palms his cock at the base.

Dean grunts and sits up straighter, peeling Castiel's hand away. "Clearly," Dean says, and his smile cuts through the dark as bright as afternoon sun. "But if you don't want it to be over, fast, stop that."

"Okay," Castiel says. "What should I do?"

"First things first," Dean says, looking at Castiel's befeathered cock with a quirked eyebrow. "There's still one part I have to touch. Are you ready?"

"I—don't really think there's an adequate answer to that question."

Dean shrugs. "Well, that's not a 'no.'" Before Castiel can react to this statement, Dean's fingers brush the tip of his cock, and pain like being staked through and impaled courses through him in a wave.

It's raw, like being split in half—

And then it's over, and Castiel is breathing through it while Dean rubs small circles into his back. When Castiel recovers enough to look at him, he smiles. "Not bad," he says. "You're still conscious."

And whole.

Dean's hand is still on his cock, which is recovering from its trauma quite impressively. Castiel stares at it as if he's never seen it before. He supposes he hasn't—not in a long time. He recollects descriptions of various turkey parts used to describe the male anatomy in art school, and is suddenly quite happy he never painted nudes.

Undeterred by this line of thinking, Castiel's own hand finds his cock and starts pumping, a little timidly, around Dean's hand. A flash of sensation so intense he briefly identifies it as pain flares along the head of the shaft—but it's not pain. It's—it's—

On instinct, Castiel reaches his other hand out to Dean's cock, more than half-hard and weeping at the tip. Dean sucks in his breath sharply at the touch, his hands losing their rhythm on Castiel for a moment before he remembers to move again. Sitting like that—with one of Dean's hands on his cock and one of his hands on Dean's—they move. Though not together: the smooth wet slide of skin on skin is punctuated by frequent breaks, interruptions and restarts. They are learning one another, and by unspoken agreement, neither wants this to end too soon.

They're finally settling into something like a regular pattern when Dean grips Castiel by the back of the neck and threads his fingers through his hair, a little roughly, and pulls their mouths together. Although he's been kissed and touched before, this is the first time Castiel has had sex with another person. He feels this realization has hit him late; it's almost over, after all. Still, his methodically trained mind is consumed with cataloguing what it's like, perhaps in case he never experiences it again.

It's intensity: he feels that if he feels very much more, sensation will cut through his bones, reducing them to liquid. It's heat: if this is what hellfire is, he'll take it every day, forever.

When he comes with a gasp with his face pressed into Dean's neck, he also realizes it's a bit messy.

Worth it.            

Dean comes a moment after him, and Castiel's perception of the act doesn't change. Now that it is over, the promised melting of his bones feels like it's underway, and he collapses on the bed of leaves beneath him with sweat and come cooling on his skin.

Dean stretches out next to him and kisses him once, sweet and close-mouthed. "Feel better?"

"Mhm," Castiel answers, his eyes closed. He's warm and comfortable, dissolving.

"You good?"

Better than good. If this is a dream, it's worth him putting up with all the previous nightmares of the night. It's worth putting up with every nightmare he's ever had combined. "M'good."

"Good. Get some sleep, Cas."

 

***

 

The next morning is pleasant—at least after the both of them get cleaned up using pails of winter snow outside. Dean doesn't try feeding Castiel—he seems to understand, now, that Castiel doesn't need food. Instead, Castiel watches Dean eat and talk—occasionally at the same time—and listens more than he speaks.

Is this what marriage is like? Waking up next to the same person, sharing stories, telling plans? Commiserating—having an ally?

The word _marriage_ drifting through his brain makes him sit up sharply, and he decides to put more of his focus on listening to Dean.

"We might get out of here," Dean says over a mouthful of spinach. "I might see Sam again. Dad. Bobby. Hell, I'd give almost anything to find out if Jo made it home all right."

The mention of Jo makes something inside Castiel freeze to a standstill. Jo. In the days since he'd become human and lost Lucifer, he had tried not to think much of his crimes, but that didn't mean they hadn't happened. And Jo—he has no way to make amends. There is no way to fix what he's done. Good God—

His discomfort must show on his face, because Dean asks, "Hey, you all right?"

"Dean," Castiel says, drawing one hand through the slightly damp hair at the base of his skull. "I need to tell you something. About Jo."

And now it is Dean who is absolutely still, but Castiel cannot let this sit between them like dead weight. He has to say something. He wants to believe Dean will forgive him.

Wanting to believe and actual belief are not the same thing: Dean demonstrates this to him before he can say another word. "You killed Jo," Dean says, his jaw set in a hard straight line. "Killed—"

Castiel doesn't deny it. He can't: though he hadn't killed her with his own hands, he had chosen Dean's safety over hers, and telling Dean this would hurt him even more. He should tell Dean this, but the idea of seeing Dean harmed more makes something in his chest feel broken. He would rather take it all on himself.

He is always taking it all on himself.

Well. Discipline is based in patterns, and Castiel is not prepared to break his. "I'm sorry," Castiel says softly. "God, I am so sorry."

It's not enough.

Dean leaves the greenhouse without another word, stomping his feet with every step. Castiel doesn't follow. He retrieves the chain Dean had used to tie both him and Lucifer to the tree, back when he'd still transformed. He sits with the chain in his hands for a moment, the weight reassuring, if cold.

Dean doesn't come back for several hours. Castiel goes outside, the chain in his hands, and finds the tree he and Dean had carved the symbols around to free him from Lucifer's spell. He leans against the tree and considers what to do.

Dean is gone. He can't leave the barrier, but it's clear he can't stand to be around Castiel any longer.

And Castiel is still here. Alone, as far as he can tell, for the indeterminate future. He can live in the greenhouse until winter's over, then see if he can pass the fire barrier without Lucifer in him. He might. He might be able to find a town, paint again, rebuild his life.

There are only a few problems with this plan: the first is that he may not be able to cross the barrier; the second is that the only town close enough for a man traveling alone on foot with what he can carry is Lawrence. And the third is that he should really allow Dean to live in the greenhouse; the structure had been built by his father, and Castiel would much rather it be him that dies of exposure than Dean.

But he needs to talk to Dean before he can figure any of that out, so he settles himself at the base of the tree with the muddy symbols carved around it. When he leans back, he discovers something cold and sharp digging into his ass, and fishes around underneath himself until he finds a cord.

The amulet.

Dean had left it here. He's not coming back.

 Castiel cups the amulet in one hand, staring at it as if it were a poisonous snake.

The touch of the metal burns him: it's so cold. When he tries to drop it, though, he finds it stuck to his skin.

_Well, well. What have we here?_

The sharply mocking voice in his mind is familiar, dread-inducing—and also somewhat reassuring. Lucifer is trapped in the amulet, but he's found Castiel again.

Castiel has long been suspecting he would.

_Yes, Cassie, I found you,_ Lucifer says, his voice taking on a tone that's almost gleeful. _How's things? Any good visitors since the last one I killed?_

"Shut up."

_Oh, no, Cassie, you're stuck with me now until I decide to let go_.

Had Dean heard this voice, all the time he'd been wearing the amulet? Had Lucifer been whispering in his ear, giving him—ideas? It makes a certain kind of sense, and for a moment, a flash of real panic enters Castiel's mind.

_Relax, moron_ , the voice says. _I can't control pansy-ass sons of witches, even if I tried._

Castiel is surprised at the confession. "You know, lying would have scared me more."

_I don't lie. I never lie. At least to you._

"You don't." It's not a question, but it's not a statement, either. Castiel knows Lucifer doesn't outright lie, but he never reveals his whole plan.

_You know, this is kind of nice._

Lucifer's voice rings in his mind. It reminds him of the sound of poorly fitted gears grinding together, and he takes his forehead in his empty hand.

_After all, it's just you and me again, ol' buddy, ol' pal. This was what I wanted._ There's a sound like a sigh, and Lucifer asks _, So, you want I should kill him for you? From what I'm getting, the guy was a real jerk to you._

"Shut up," Castiel says again, more insistently this time. The hand attached to the amulet comes up to slap him in the face, and he curses.

_You know, I could work with this._

Castiel is not in the mood for another display of Lucifer's growing dominance, and chooses to remain silent.

_I could make it all better._

Castiel snorts. "How?"

_Say I let the pansy ass go. I'll give you enough power to open the barrier and let him free._

"And why would you do that?"

_Well, I need a body if I'm ever going to escape, right?_

"Of course," Castiel says. He understands perfectly. Nothing at all has changed. He is, after all, the same selfish, flawed and damaged person he's been from the beginning.

That said, because of who—and what—he is, he might be able to help Dean get away.

"This is a negotiation," Castiel says. "I'll give you what you want, but I have terms."

Lucifer cackles maniacally. _Name 'em._

 

***

 

Castiel argues with Lucifer for hours, eventually restraining his own arms with the chain when Lucifer attempts a little too much aggression. In the end, he is satisfied that Dean will make it back to Lawrence—though hadn't been able to request the assistance of a demonic horse; Lucifer's powers to control humans and beasts are fairly limited.

 When he's done talking, Castiel wraps the chain tightly around himself and the tree his back is against and waits to transform again.

He should have known better. Once a monster, always a monster.

Castiel is under no illusions about what he is.


	31. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no place like home for the holidays. :) Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! And for those who don't, I hope you have a wonderful day!

Dean comes gradually to awareness on the ground. His pack digs into his spine; apparently he'd fallen asleep without remembering to take it off. He feels like he's had negative sleep: everything hurts, and he's too exhausted to move.

He has to move. He's fortunate that he hadn't died of exposure in the night. The fire at the gate is miles back, and he's leagues from any shelter. He gets up, stomps blood into his frozen appendages, and settles his pack more comfortably on his shoulders.

He follows the line of the road toward home. His hands and feet become, not just cold, but tingling and numb: causalities of winter without good boots and gloves. He knows men who have lost fingers and toes to frostbite.

Better than losing what's left of himself to the demon.

Not Cas. It was never Cas. Or, if it was, it was still wrong. He has no strength to untangle it all. He just wants to go home.

He remembers the peace offering left out before Dean had left: fresh bread, cheese, fruit. He had packed it all grimly, resigned; none of the other food had been poisonous, and running home without provisions would have been even dumber than running home without winter gear. The fire at the gate had parted for him. That and the food tell him that Castiel must have given into the demon again.

_To save you, you idiot,_ a voice Dean vaguely recognizes as his conscience insists inside his head.

"He killed Jo," Dean snaps. And who knows how many more people. The people in the wagons. His friends. He might have killed John, in a different mood. Dean had been spared because of a passing resemblance to the man the demon's host had been in love with.

When he thinks about it that way, it sounds sick as fuck. He keeps thinking about it that way as he travels. Rage keeps his blood warm—at least for a little while.

A stream he walks near is half-frozen, and the sodden wet ground seeps cold up through his toes and legs until even his hips go numb. The sun starts to set, and Dean realizes he's not even halfway to Lawrence yet.

He'll die out here.

Ca—the demon won't save him.

Everyone else thinks he's dead.

Having run this through his mind, Dean finds a tree to brace his back against, removes his pack, and plants himself face-up, staring at the bright winter stars through the mist of his breath. It's a clear evening, gorgeous actually, except for the frigid chill. If he were home, he might build a snow family with Sam and stir up a town-wide snowball fight. He might drink hot cider near the fire with apple bread and pie. He might…

He closes his eyes, remembering the little match girl from the fairy tale.

No one had come to save her, either.

 

***

 

When Dean wakes up, he's warm through and sweating like a pig. He opens his eyes and peers down at himself, discovering that he's under several layers of blankets. Someone's also put him in a pair of cotton flannel pajamas and at least two pairs of wool socks. Though his chest and arms are shedding sweat as if he's just gone swimming, he can't wiggle his toes at all, and what feeling there is in his hands and toes is like pins and needles: sharp and bright, as if ice has gotten into his veins somehow.

"What happened to you, boy?" Bobby's voice cuts through his head like a saw through rock, and the scraping sends sparks along his raw nerves.

"Frostbite, I think," he mutters.

"Hilarious," Bobby says, sarcasm dripping venom into his tone. "Let's try this again. Where the hell have you _been_?"

Dean closes his eyes again and hunkers down under the covers, shoulders hunching into the cushion beneath him. "Leave it, Bobby." His throat hurts, and even if it didn't, he doesn't want to talk right now. He doesn't want to talk, ever. He feels like the biggest idiot in the long and storied history of idiocy, and right now, all he wants to do is sleep.

"Dean," Bobby says in a disturbingly sweet, cajoling tone. "Did you kill that demon?"

"No," he snaps.

"Then we need to talk," Bobby says. "C'mon, get up. You've slept long enough."

With Bobby's hand on his arm, Dean pushes himself out of the bed with all the skill and ease of an arthritic octogenarian. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly to the floor as Bobby gets up and retrieves a glass of hot cider. He offers it to Dean, and Dean gulps it down, discovering with some relief that there's bourbon in it. He sets the cider cup down and rubs his numb hands together.

"So you didn't kill the demon," Bobby says. "Is it comin' after you?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. I don't think so. We—I talked to it. It let me leave." For some reason that Dean really does not want to think too hard about. "It has to stay. There's a barrier around the estate."

"Estate, huh?" Bobby asks. "Sounds fancy." He gets up and pours another glass of cider out of a steaming pitcher, and Dean watches him pour some of his liquor into it before handing Dean another glass.

"You tryin' to get me drunk?"

"I'm tryin' to keep you warm, idjit. You're not out of the woods yet." Bobby takes up a cup of his own and drinks down a generous swallow that makes his Adam's apple jump. "Ain't even told Sam you're back yet."

Wow. That is serious.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," Bobby says. "You'll have nerve damage, sure. How bad, I can't say. You're hypothermic. It's amazing you woke up at all." He sighs. "But the demon's important, son. Hell, you left to fight it, and if there's the slightest chance it's comin' after you—"

"There's not," Dean says. "It can't."

Bobby nods, a little sadly. "I hope you're right. I just sent Garth after Sam. He'll be here in a bit, I expect. And I'll stick nearby to poke you awake."

The silence stretches uncomfortably between them. Dean asks, "How long was I out?"

Bobby thinks for a moment, counting on his hands. "Week and a half, give or take. Thought you were dead when I found ya."

"How did you find me, anyway?"

"Strangest thing," Bobby says. "I was out hunting game with Garth, and heard someone call for help." He snorts. "Must not have been you, but it took me right to ya."

Magic, probably. Maybe Cas had saved him.

Yeah, no. He'd put more money on God watching over him than Cas.

His stomach chooses this moment to make a rumbling sound, distracting him pleasantly from thoughts of Cas. "Say, I don't suppose you've got food handy? I'm starving." His gut punctuates this statement with a distinctive whining growl.

"Sorry, Dean, food's short," Bobby says. "I told Garth to pick something up on his way back, so we might have something soon. Sit tight."

Wait, food is short? "Where's the food?"

"Well, Dean, it's winter," Bobby says in the tone of an adult explaining economics to an insolent child. "And those wagons were destroyed. Then the millwheel broke, and the damn Miltons won't fix it, and the Winchesters can't afford to."

"And the McClouds?"

"Seem content to feast in their mansion and leave the little people to their problems."

Dean shifts under the blankets, and a blast of cold from the room outside them moves up his leg. He shivers. Shivering is good, right? People who are really hypothermic don't shiver. It's when they _stop_ shivering...

Bobby nods at his shaking approvingly. "Any chance your daddy can comp me for the meal? I wouldn't ask ordinarily, but I'm feedin' too many mouths as is."

"Don't worry about me, Bobby," Dean says. The terrible situation in town is now sinking in, making Dean's formerly ravenous stomach turn sour. The town is starved. The goddamn Miltons refuse to help. Typical. The Winchesters are near destitute, and the Crowleys don't care, so—where can the town get food?

"Hey, Bobby," Dean says. "Does that glassblower still live in town?"

"Sarah Blake? What of her?"

"I have an idea," Dean says. "When I was—gone, I lived in a greenhouse."

Bobby's eyebrows furrow in concentration. A moment later, his face lights up. "That explains a few things," he says. "But glass is expensive."

"Hot damn, it is," Dean says, "and I'm going to need you to spell it, to keep it warm and safe. We'll plant enough to feed the whole town inside."

"I hate to rain on your parade, princess," Bobby says, "but the town is starving _now_. I don't mind reachin' out to Sarah and seeing if she's interested in helping out, but the millwheel's top priority. Get it?"

Dean nods. "So how do we get Zachariah Milton to pay for the wheel?"

"Easy," Bobby says. "Sam and I are stealing the money tonight."

Dean blinks. Good old Bobby. Always one step ahead.

 

***

 

Sam shows up a few minutes later, wearing a coat so old and threadbare he thinks it must have belonged to their grandfather.

"Where's your coat?" Bobby and Dean blurt at the same time, though Bobby punctuates the question with an "idjit."

"Gave it to the mission," Sam said. "Lots of people going hungry, selling everything. Just trying to help out."

Dean shakes his head. He admires Sam's generosity, but he also finds it a little bit stupid.

Sam stands, giant and gawping, as if he doesn't believe Dean is real. Then he crosses the room in what looks like a single step and crushes Dean's ribs in a hug so tight he feels his heart stop for a second.

Ordinarily, Dean would return the hug, but his arms are stiff and Sam's grip is restrictive. He wheezes, and Sam pulls back to look at him. His eyes are wet and red around the edges, and Dean grins, about to make some wisecrack about Sam's girlishness, when Sam says, "We thought you were _dead_. Were you behind that fire, all this time? How did you escape? How—"

Dean blinks a few times and yawns. He's going to have to tell Bobby and Sam—at least a little of it. Enough to get them off his back. Maybe he should have told Bobby he'd killed the demon: he'd be subjected to fewer questions that way. "Well," Dean drawls, "I'm not dead. Yet. Maybe. And yeah, I was locked behind that fire wall—I couldn't get to you until it opened." He doesn't mention that Castiel had opened the gate to him before that, and that he could have come home a lot sooner.

Christ, he _should_ have done that.

Well, he can't walk backwards in his life. It's forward, or nothing. "The demon let me go."

Bobby snorts. "Out of the goodness of its heart, I expect."

Sam's eyes flit to Bobby. "Did you check him?"

"When he came in," Bobby confirms. "No possession, no weird markings or tattoos, and he's not a shifter or a werewolf."

"Thanks for talking about me like I'm not here," Dean mutters.

"Sorry, Dean, force of habit," Sam says. He smiles, but it looks pained. "I really did think you were dead." He pauses, then adds, "I'm really, really glad you're not." He looks back at Bobby. "When can he go home?"

"Tonight, probably, if I can find something to wrap him in that'll keep him from relapsing before he gets back to your place."

Sam bites his lip and ducks his head. "Um, maybe he could stay here?"

Bobby shrugs. "Sure, I don't mind. S'long as I don't have to tell your daddy he's back."

Dean sits up a little straighter. "Wait. Who all knows I'm back?"

"Just me, Sam and Garth," Bobby says. "I would've told others if I thought you'd make it. Maybe."

Sam snorts. "I'll tell dad when we get back from getting the money from Zachariah. And—" Sam thinks for a moment. "Can I stay here, too? Just for tonight?"

Bobby rolls his eyes in irritation, but the easy line of his shoulders and the relaxed line of his mouth indicate that he's calm—maybe even content, as far as Bobby goes. "Okay," he says, "but this ain't an inn. Git back to your place tomorrow, ya hear?"

Sam nods and takes out a narrow strip of black cloth. He ties it around his head and arranges it over his nose and mouth: a mask. He takes the ends of the mask to obscure his hair, and says, "I'm ready whenever you are."

Bobby calls, "Garth!"

Garth enters a few moments later, wearing a mask similar to Sam's and carrying a worn leather satchel close to his body, presumably to carry valuables away in. His hair sticks out in all directions, and Dean's pretty sure nearly anyone would recognize him, mask or no. It's a good thing it's dark outside.

With a heave, Bobby pushes himself out of his chair, knees popping as he stands. He stretches and says, "We'll be back before first light. Sam, get some of the soup from the kitchen for your brother before you go. Looks like he could use it."

 

***

 

After Sam brings the soup and gives Dean another bone-crunching hug, Dean sits up in Bobby's bed and lets warmth surround him. He sips the soup slowly; it's hot enough to scald his tongue. Still, he wants more of it.

He wants to live.

Sam has that effect on him, apparently. And Bobby. He'll have to ask Bobby why he was even out in the woods, out in the middle of nowhere—later. Right now, he's enjoying his soup.

As he eats and nestles the flannel blankets around him more closely over his shoulders, he blatantly ignores the gaping hole in his mind where someone else should be. Someone else he used to eat with. Someone he wanted to save. Someone who'd saved him, over and over again.

Yeah, dude's a creep. But Dean pays his debts. It's only fair.

He remembers that the demon had destroyed the wagons that would have kept the town fed; it had killed waggoners, townspeople. Jo.

The world would be a better place without Castiel in it.

He holds to that thought as he lays the soup bowl on the floor, stretches out, and closes his eyes. He's asleep almost immediately, the swallowing dark cradling him like Bobby's blankets, and when he wakes up, there's crust in his eyes and drool coming out the side of this mouth. Damn—Bobby's bed is comfortable.

Dean rubs his face and sits up, blinking several times to clear his vision. There's a glass of water near the bed; he grabs it and slugs it without thinking. After the last drop goes down his throat, he wipes his mouth and hears, familiar and easy:

"Hello, Dean."

The glass drops from his hand and shatters into a dozen pieces on the floor.

Dean gets up, caring not a whit for the glass, and puts his back to the wall, slinking into the corner nearest the fire. His numb legs refuse to carry him quickly, and he stumbles, cutting his kneecap clean open.

 "Can you hear me?"

Dean's not going to answer. That's the only sane response to this madness. Castiel is not here: he can't be. The fire would have stopped the demon. Besides, Bobby's house is warded against demons. He's _safe,_ God damn it.

"Witch bowls only stay active for so long—please. Can you hear me? I need your help."

Witch bowls? Castiel's using magic—probably with Lucifer's permission. Dean snorts. "Bet you do."

"Dean?" Castiel asks, and it sounds sad. "I'm glad you made it home." A pause. "Lucifer is going to break free. Mr. Singer can create another amulet to contain him. Tell him to do it. Do it now—"

Castiel's voice is cut off by a horrific scream, and Dean yells, "Cas?!"

And then he's sitting up in bed, blankets falling from his shoulders. Sam calls his name in the dark, and he freezes. "Sam?" he asks groggily. "You're back. Did you get the money—for the millwheel?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He's sitting on a stool opposite Dean, approximately at the same level; Dean can look him in the eyes easily. Sam's leg sprawl gracelessly underneath the bed, jarring the bed a little as Sam moves the stool closer. "Dropped it off at the miller's already. Should take a few days to fix."

A few days, and the town would have bread again. That's good news.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asks. "Looks like you were having a nightmare."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Happens, sometimes. I just spent a few months outrunning a demon, so. Flashbacks, I guess." His hand moves to the nape of his neck and rubs the bristle there. The hair he feels is longer than he remembers, and that strangeness reminds him that rubbing his neck is one of his tells. Sam is going to know he's lying.

"I can't even imagine what you went through," Sam says after a quiet moment.

Briefly, Dean is relieved enough to think he'll get away with this—that Sam won't question him or call him out.

The moment doesn't last.

"But you don't have to hide anything from me." Sam finds his hand atop the covers and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Bobby told me the demon's still alive. I don't care. I'm just glad you made it back."

Sam squeezes his hand before letting go, and seriously, could he make Dean feel any more like a girl if he tried? Smiling sadly, Sam gets up and moves into the doorway. Dean lies back down, arms at his sides, determined to at least try to sleep again.

If he could take something to get rid of dreams, he would.

"One more thing," Sam says from the doorway.

"What, Sam?"

"It's just—" He pauses, looking uncomfortable. "Who's Cas?"


	32. Breakout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Castiel is still trapped in a horrifying nightmare, but it will all end soon. I promise. :)

Lucifer finds Castiel's cowed spirit boring. He may enjoy the adoration and blind obedience of his thralls, but Castiel has always been—different. Special. Lucifer has always been able to get him to play along of his own accord, and now that Castiel no longer seems to care about anything, it's like dragging an albatross around his neck.

"C'mon, Cassie, make it snappy," Lucifer hisses to the dull spirit sharing his head. "I need your knowledge of the spell to come up with a strategy."

_I wasn't under the impression that you needed me for anything any longer._

"Ah, there's that spark I like so much. Well, _need_ is maybe the wrong word, but watching you mope? It isn't fun for me. Wouldn't you rather be doing something?"

_I am doing something. I'm refusing to help you break free._

"Oh, but Castiel, you've already done that." Lucifer stretches his dark wings wide. The healing the witch kid had done had made his takeover of Castiel's body a much more pleasant experience; there are no more sharp edges or bumpy skin where there shouldn't be, and the internal scarring is gone. "Thanks to you, I'm free to run around at will."

_That's different. We negotiated. You let Dean go. He made it back safe. That's all I wanted._

"So selfless. And now I imagine you'd like it if I killed you?"

_I'd prefer it._

See? This is what Lucifer means: boring. Despondent.

Well, there's nothing for it: Lucifer is just going to have to make Castiel angry.

"Well, you'll have to wait," Lucifer says. "I have some calls to make."

 

***

 

With Dean gone and Castiel quiescent, Lucifer wastes no time rebuilding his base of operations. Chasing the human around in a frozen wasteland like a terrifying survivor game had been fun, but now that he has permission to mobilize his army, they need a place to stay. After all, some of them are human.

He finds the old room where Castiel used to hide, locks it and fixes it up—all except the ceiling mural, which has been more than half-wrecked by ice and winter storms. He knows his host likes it, so he settles for repairing the structure of the ceiling and leaving the painting ruined, hoping he'll get a rise out of Castiel.

No such luck. The asshole remains near catatonic, speaking only when spoken to—if that. Lucifer doesn't feel him register the existence of the painting at all.

He guesses it's true: be careful what you wish for. Getting Castiel to go along with the plan should not feel so profoundly unsatisfying.

Since Castiel is ignoring him, he chooses to do the same and call some of his human subjects to the manor. He finds his witch bowl in a corner—cracked, and dirty, but serviceable—and decides to scry to Lawrence, looking first for the McClouds. They'd been nearly successful, last time, in breaking the barrier from outside; it's possible they'll get another shot at it once winter solstice comes around.

Lucifer takes one sharp talon and digs it into the soft flesh beneath his opposite wing. The wound oozes blood, and Lucifer gets a perverse little thrill that all the scars Castiel will have from now on will come from him. He gets a blank canvas to work with. Maybe he'll thank that kid if he sees him again—before he guts him, that is.

 _If you like, you could think of me as dead._ Castiel's voice echoes inside his head. _I won't stop you, and you can't hurt me._

"Don't assume I'm done with you," Lucifer mutters as he holds the bleeding wound over the witch bowl. Innocent hostages are always good to have when going up against hunters. Besides, he can't kill Castiel outright without killing himself; he hasn't found a way around that spell yet.

Maybe one of the thralls has. He stirs the bowl with a bit of bone, and a half-burned and bewhiskered face comes into focus.

"Crowley," Lucifer says in a jovial tone. "Glad you made it."

"Cut the crap, asshole," Crowley rasps in his thick accent, burned skin flapping as he struggles to speak. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Sorry," Lucifer continues amiably, sounding not sorry at all, "but the pet slipped his leash for a bit. I've got him back under control now, and we still have time before solstice. I want a report."

Crowley nods. "Ruby!"

Crowley's dark-haired daughter enters the range of the witch bowl, curtseying low before bringing her face close to her father's, so that they are both peering over the lip of their scrying bowl together. "Yes, my lord?"

"You see?" Lucifer asks. "Your daughter has manners. I like that." He waves his wing out in a sweeping gesture, as if to indicate his prison. "McClouds. Report."

"The Winchesters don't have the weapon," Ruby says. "So far, I and the source haven't been able to locate it."

Lucifer nods thoughtfully. Even if that punk kid gets his hands on that gun, there's only one bullet. "And what have your efforts entailed?"

"We've been searching the town—physically and with magic," Ruby says. "None of my spells has been able to find the slightest trace of the weapon. I think it's likely that someone stole it and took it out of town." Her chin rises a little, proud, and Lucifer wouldn't mind riding around in her for a little while—as soon as his people can cross the wall of fire.

"As reassuring as that sounds," Lucifer purrs, pretending contentment to encourage the girl, "consider other possibilities. Lawrence is full of hunters, and some have warding that can thwart location spellwork."

Ruby's forehead puckers a little. "Yes," she says. "We've got eyes on Gordon Walker and Bobby Singer. They're the only ones with enough magic to block the spell. So far, we haven’t seen or sensed the gun anywhere on them."

Good news, as far as it goes. Lucifer lets out a long, slow breath and thinks about fierce, destructive walls of his prison. They hurt him. He knows he doesn't always have the best intentions for this world, but freedom is something God grants humans—why not angels?

Perhaps this is why he feels something for his human host. Not compassion, as such, but a certain understanding of freedom's value—and the feeling when it's taken away.

_I hate it when you get philosophical._

The voice inside his head is petulant, almost childish, and it pleases him. Castiel _is_ listening. He hasn't given up yet. He's like Lucifer himself—in that way, if in no other. Never say die.

"And the spell for the solstice?" Lucifer asks, letting a little of his hope bubble to the surface. "Is it completed?"

"As far as it can be," Ruby says. "We have all the ingredients, and they're sealed so they won't mix until the proper time."

"Very good," Lucifer says. "And the messenger?"

"On his way. He should reach you tomorrow."

Lucifer nods sharply. "I'll expect daily reports until solstice. And, Crowley?"

"Yeah, you bastard?"

"Get me that gun. I won't ask twice."

Crowley nods shakily, and Ruby's eyes widen a little. Lucifer passes his wing over the scrying bowl, making it an ordinary bowl of blood again. "What did you think of that, Cassie?"

_Leave me alone with your absurdities._

"Oh? You're not in the least bit interested? And after all the trouble you went to just to tell your loverboy what I'm planning…"

In point of fact, that hadn't gone exactly as Lucifer had planned. He had promised Castiel that Dean was alive and had made it back to Lawrence: Castiel is smart enough, now, not to trust Lucifer's assurances without proof. It's often an irritating trait, but Lucifer would be lying if he said he didn't value Castiel's intelligence. Vying with a stupid host might have given him full control sooner, but the challenge had made his confinement—interesting. Almost fun. What's a decade, here or there, to someone of his age, when there's a diverting soul to play with?

_I only did that to make sure he stays safe. That **was** part of our agreement._

Lucifer snorts. "If he comes back," Lucifer says, "deal or not, he's fair game."

 _Understood_. Castiel's voice has the hollow ring back in it. Lucifer doesn't like it.

Maybe when he frees himself, he'll free Castiel as well. The guy's suffered enough for two lifetimes.

 _Pity me again,_ Castiel says in his mind, _and I'll dredge up that memory about God, the Darkness and the Mark of Cain._

"You wouldn't dare."

_Watch me._

Lucifer is so proud of Castiel.

 

***

              

Though Lucifer trusts to the competency of his minions—in part because he's been planning every detail of this escape for years—he doesn't leave all of the preparations to them. The fire barrier around this place is designed to be unbreakable by demonic magic. Castiel's magic can affect it, but he doesn't have Castiel's full cooperation.

Well, he doesn't need cooperation. He has his power—and his knowledge of spellwork. He spends the day hunting down belladonna and henbane, yellow mold and crystallized rock salt—all the things he needs to make a temporary way through the fire shield. He sits and mixes the ingredients, pulverizing them to powder, and hums. Castiel ignores him and the afternoon passes pleasantly, with Lucifer almost forgetting about his long confinement.

He'll be free soon, and the idea makes him almost giddy with delight. Free of his cage; free to hunt the other angels down, wherever they are, and finish the war they'd started so long ago. He's looking forward to that. Well, that, and a lot of property damage.

At the end of the night, he digs three holes two feet square and one deep and pours the powered spell into them. Two of the holes are filled; one remains mostly empty. He'll have to mix more powder when he's in charge again.

Unfortunately, he still has some sharing and caring time to put up with from with Castiel: his host still takes over in the mornings. Lucifer can't break Michael's spell, no matter what Castiel agrees to.

In his current mood, though, that doesn't matter. Lucifer's almost looking forward to the morning. He suspects he knows the messenger Crowley sent, and if he's right, he might be able to put into action another plan to retrieve the Colt.

The Colt might be the only thing on earth that could prevent his escape. Though only Michael—and Castiel—know it, that gun holds the secret to the spell that holds Castiel and Lucifer together. Lucifer shrugs a little uncomfortably.

 _Nervous?_ Castiel asks.

"Ha."

_Dean had the gun last. He probably knows where it is._

"Don't sound so smug," Lucifer mutters. "Even if they manage to shoot us with it, it's a 50/50 shot." It's true. The odds are fair. The bullet in that chamber will kill either Lucifer or Castiel—but not both. Either way, Castiel will be free—but Lucifer doesn't want to take the gamble that someone will kill him during his first hour of freedom.

_How would you prefer me to sound? Insouciant, maybe?_

"Y'know, I take back what I said earlier. I liked it better when you were mopey."

_Sorry to disappoint._

Lucifer shakes his head a little, and focuses on tomorrow.  
 

***

 

Though Castiel had made a deal with Lucifer, the rules of their shared body still hold. Lucifer controls him completely at night, but Castiel still retains partial control during the day. He doesn't want it, so he allows Lucifer to drag him around like a rag doll, content with the idea that his dead weight is slowing Lucifer down.

That's all he'd ever been able to do, is slow him down. The rest had all been wishful thinking. Soon enough, Lucifer will break free. Castiel hopes he kills him after. Or maybe before. He'd rather not serve as witness to Lucifer's rebirth on earth.

"Michael, I'm sorry."

 _What's that?_ Lucifer says inside his mind. _Is that remorse? I thought you gave it up for Lent, or something._

"Leave me alone."

_Make me. Anyway, I need to surface for a bit. I'm expecting a delivery._

"Fine," Castiel says. "Just don't expect me to make it easy on you."

_Never, Cassie. It's why we get along so well._

Castiel had discovered right away that his leaden mood is capable of making Lucifer slower, less precise, more lethargic; there's never really been a clear separation between them and Castiel never promised he wouldn't use his mood against Lucifer. It's the letter of the agreement and not the spirit, but Castiel doesn't care. He has no reason to give Lucifer more advantages.

Lucifer skates close to the surface of his mind, their thoughts bumping, and Castiel feels like something's stinging at the back of his eyes. Their body twitches its way toward the gate, slow and half-limping, and Lucifer is peeved but not enough to yell at him.

He must really be looking forward to this delivery.

As the gate looms into view, large flakes of snow start to fall: gently and slowly, because the air is cold and still. This is the sort of scene Castiel likes to paint—transitional, in between the clear day and the storm, suspended spaces. Lucifer has never appreciated beauty, but he likes the cold, and gives Castiel a sort of hmph that might signify some kind of approval.

The crispness of the air carries the sound of hoofbeats toward him long before he sees a horse. Lucifer completes their long trek to the gate and stops: Castiel knows that if they take another step, the hedge and gate will alight. The clunk-and-hush of the horse moving on the stone-covered slush gets louder by degrees, until the horse and rider come into view.

The horse, Castiel recognizes: it's the same one Castiel has seen before; the one that had brought Dean here and ferried John back. It's Lucifer's minion, a demon itself, a dumb beast that can move between the gate and the world. In that way it's more capable than Lucifer, and Castiel suspects that galls the demon manipulating his limbs.

To his surprise, he recognizes the man, too. Though it has been a long time—months, at least—he thinks he saw him the night of the massacre.

That's right. The man who was poisoned, but got away.

"Dick," Lucifer says through Castiel's mouth, inclining his head slightly to the black-eyed stranger. "So nice to see you again."


	33. Shotgun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made the Millers the millers. Yeah, I deserve a lot of flak for that. But at least I didn't tease Sam and Bobby breaking into Zachariah's without showing it to you, right? :)

The night that Sam breaks into Zachariah Milton's house does not rank up there as one of his finest. The break-in through the back windows goes fairly well—they're quiet and don't break anything—but it's all downhill from there: Zachariah appears to have stashed his valuables close to the vest, so in their first few minutes of searching, they find very little—and make too much noise. Garth is not particularly known for his stealth. His "whisper" sounds a little like a cheese grater.

And Zachariah Milton himself is a very light sleeper.

Sam is picking through what looks like a spare bedroom, searching for anything light enough to stuff into his clothes, when he notices the subtle thunk of footfalls nearby. He remains where he is for a moment, still, ready to hide, until he realizes that Garth is coming from the room behind him. Sam relaxes and takes a cautious step back, nearly tripping over a piece of leather luggage, nearly full. He catches himself, looks at the luggage, and frowns. There's a lot of it. More, probably, than there should be—six bags and a satchel, all full, aside from one bag that's sitting on a lounger, open.

Apparently Zachariah is planning a trip.

The echo of footsteps gets closer rapidly, and a door opens, revealing a waspish man in a nightcap and long underwear, holding a too-bright oil lantern. Zachariah.

Sam and Garth freeze, caught. Zachariah surveys them with bleary eyes that become more alert and threatening as he speaks. "Sam," he says in a voice cold as chips of ice. "Garth. Were the masks really necessary?"

"Yeah, probably not, sir," Sam says. He and Garth have some of the most easily recognizable features in town—Sam's height, Garth's hair. It's almost inevitable they'd be recognized.

Zachariah yawns widely and lifts the lantern a little. "Shall I call the constable first, or your father?" He fixes a sneer of contempt on Garth. "I might have expected petty theft from a rabid dog, but I thought better of you, Sam Winchester."

Sam is about to reply with something polite but firm, but he doesn't get the chance: there's the sudden sound of hinges opening, and a faint light coming from the open doorway. "Milton!" The voice is booming, authoritative. "A word."

Though a chill creeps up Sam's spine, he manages a thin smile. "Looks like dad's already here."

Muttering a curse, Zachariah diverts his light toward the figure of John Winchester. Tall and imposing as ever, he fills Sam with a sense of commingled fear and protection. He only hopes it's Milton he's after and not himself.

"Mr. Winchester," Zachariah snaps, "your spawn has resorted to breaking and entering. Shall we discuss the matter on the way to the gaol?"

John shakes his head. "It's my boy and I'll punish him," John says, and Sam's face tightens in alarm, but the casual glance John throws his way has no threat in it. "I came to ask a favor."

Zachariah's face becomes completely still. "A favor? After this?" His shoulders jerk forward unevenly; he almost drops the lantern. "What," he spits, "could you want?"

"Well," John says. "About that loan I gave you last year. I'm calling it in."

Zachariah's expression freezes. "Terms are at the end of the year."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?" Zachariah asks, and Sam notices his eyes flicking to the opened luggage in the room and understands. Zachariah intends to flee—without paying any of his debts. Or telling anyone.

Curious.

John gestures around the room. "Few reasons. Mr. Singer told me you were like to disappear before you paid. Now, I don't like believing that, but it looks like Mr. Singer knows your plans. Fair?"

Zachariah nods tightly. "And the other reasons?"

"Do I need 'em?"

Sam watches Zachariah's shoulders slump by slow degrees. "I didn't intend to leave town without squaring my debts," he says in a reedy, pleading tone. "But where I'm going, I'll need every penny."

"I'm sure you will," John says in mock sympathy, "but you don't need any of _my_ money. Give it back."

"No." Zachariah's chin is up, his eyes gleaming defiance. "I can't."

"Well, then," John says, "I guess I will need those other reasons." A shiver goes down Sam's spine, because that is his father's serious, military commander voice, the one he uses when he will not be argued down. John pauses to let his pronouncement sink in, then continues in his same steady, terrifyingly way: "My brother did you a favor, didn't he?"

Zachariah's lips purse to a thin line. "That was years ago—decades—"

"I don't care. I'm calling the debt in, in his name. I shouldn't have to," he says. He takes two steps forward and locks Zachariah's arms between his two fists, so fast that Sam almost doesn't see it coming. "But it seems you won't do the right thing any other way," John says, tightening his grip until Zachariah flushes with the effort of breaking free.

"The right thing?" Zachariah's eyes widen in something like contempt. "I suppose it's right to break into other people's houses, steal their belongings, and threaten them with violence? What about that is right?"

John shrugs, and the movement pulls Zachariah's trapped arms a little, making him wince. "It's no more wrong than letting hundreds of people starve."

"So let them starve," Zachariah says. "Lawrence will survive it, or not. I'll be moving on, in either case."

"Yes," John says. "You will. But not without a parting present." Sam watches with his jaw unhinged as John lets go of Zachariah. He turns and takes the satchel from the bed, swinging it easily over his shoulder. He turns to go, and in a tone of command, says, "Sam. Garth."

Sam scurries behind his father, Garth at his heels, and they follow John out the front door.

"Thanks, dad," Sam says, stunned. He doesn't understand exactly what just happened, but it looks like his father had managed to simultaneously get the money for the millwheel plus enough to save the Winchesters from destitution. But…he has an uncle?

Had, more likely. Zachariah had claimed the favor had come decades ago, when Sam was a child. No wonder he doesn't remember. But he thinks he'd remember an uncle _vaguely,_ at least. His father prizes family above everything, at least in the abstract. On a personal level, Sam has several complaints about his father's conduct, but he doesn't make them aloud anymore. No point. He's heard all the excuses and thrown all the punches he feels he needs to, and he's tired of having the same damn fight all the time.

Bobby is waiting outside as lookout, cudgel in hand in case things really had gone south inside. He gives John a twisted frown when he finds out what he’d done, but he doesn’t complain. “Mission accomplished,” he mutters, lowering his cudgel and falling in next to Garth.

Garth and Bobby separate from them at Bobby’s house, and Sam and John keep walking toward the Millers' to portion out their share of Zachariah's money. As he walks, Sam thinks about what he'd heard, trying to puzzle it all out. John walks at his side, steady, cavalier, and Sam wonders if he's drunk. It doesn't seem like it, but it's not always easy to tell, with him.

"So," Sam starts, trying to sound as easygoing as his father's stride. "What favor did your brother do for Mr. Milton, anyway?"

John snorts. "Lockbox. Made him a magic one. Never did find out what became of it."

Sam's mind races ahead of his words. Since when did he have an uncle? Since when did that uncle traffic in magical artifacts? Did Dean know? Bobby? The whole town?

"You never told me you had a brother."

John shakes his head and doesn't look at Sam.

Sam lets out a slow breath. "I guess you weren't like me and Dean, then."

"No," John says. "We weren't."

 

***

 

Though Dean and their dad have much in common, Sam isn't as good at wheedling information out of John as he is Dean. However, he has a good excuse to go to Bobby's again, and Bobby's always been more forthcoming. He knocks on the door several times before a bleary-eyed Bobby answers it, but it's clear he hasn't been asleep.

Sam notices immediately that his hands are shaking, his eyes wide open as if his eyelids have been tacked in place. His grip on the doorframe is strong, so it's not sickness. It's—excitement? Too much coffee? Too much of—something else?

Sam sighs. "What did you take, Bobby?"

"Coffee," Bobby snaps, "like it's any of your business. Git in here. I need to run something past you."

Without so much as a "Hi, Sam, how's it going?", Bobby turns and heads toward the back of his house, toward what he calls his "war room" and what Sam thinks of as Lawrence's library. Sam enters the house, locks the door, and finds Bobby in his best chair poring over an old book with the gun Sam had given him in easy reach.

Bobby looks up when he comes in. "Well, I got good news and bad news," Bobby says.

"Bad news first," Sam says, dropping into a moth-eaten chair opposite Bobby. The atmosphere of the room relaxes him; the chair hugs him, and he has to avoid being sucked into falling asleep. Bobby has drunk entirely too much coffee—and probably other things—for Sam to ignore what he's found.

"This gun only has one bullet." Bobby primes the gun with a soft click. Up close, in the low light of the room, Sam notices darkness like bruises under Bobby's eyes and the exhausted slump of his shoulders. How long had it been since he'd slept?

Bobby releases the catch on the gun and opens the barrel. "Good news is," he says, "that bullet can kill demons."

Sam's eyes widen. That explains Bobby's excitement, and possibly his lack of sleep as well. "You mean kill them—not just exorcise them? Get rid of them for good?"

"Seems so." Bobby pops the bullet out of the gun and hands it to Sam carefully. Though it's somewhat dark, the lamps reveal etchings in the bullet that Sam explores with his fingers. "Spellwork."

"Yeah. Consecrated iron rounds, spells written in Enochian."

"Angel magic?"

Bobby nods. "Some witch found out how to kill a demon." He snorted. "Doesn't take a genius to figure out why. But if your daddy's telling the truth about where this came from—" Bobby shrugged. "What kind of monster keeps a suicide pill on hand?"

"Or maybe it just didn't want someone else to have it? Use it?"

Bobby shakes his head. "That's fine in theory, but your daddy said the demon got pissed at him when he took it, which tells me he wasn't s'posed to get it, if you take my meaning."

Yet he'd walked away from the woods with it, without a scratch. A weapon like that— Sam sucks in a breath. "It sounds like a deal. You think dad made a deal."

"Maybe," Bobby says, "but I'd put money on the demon making a deal with the gunmaker. That makes more sense. It explains why we have it—and why the other side wants it back."

"Wait, what?"

"Your old pal Ruby and Gordon are trying to find this thing." Bobby takes the bullet back from Sam and pops it into the gun. "I heard 'em. Some sort of spell. It's planned for winter solstice."

"That's—only a few weeks away."

"Yep." Bobby slides the reassembled gun into his belt. "They think I have it, but they don't know. We gotta keep it from them until then."

Sam frowns. "Should we pass it, then? Keep it moving between you, me, maybe Ellen, to keep them from finding it?"

Bobby chews his lip briefly, considering. "Maybe. I'll work out a plan and we'll decide in the morning." Bobby yawns hugely. "I got to build the fire up before bed," he says. "Go check on your brother for me."

"Will do, Bobby." Looks like the coffee crash is coming. Sam would rather not be around for that.

He'd certainly given him a lot to think about.

Before Sam can remember to ask Bobby about his supposed uncle, he's vanished into the kitchen dropping swear words Sam's never heard before. He decides to ask him in the morning.

 

***

 

Dean's asleep when Sam comes to check on him—soundly, though he's also making little noises and twitching, as if his dream is about being chased.

Sam sits down on a stool near the bed, debating whether or not he should wake Dean, when his brother snorts, rolls over, and mutters something that sounds like sarcastic gibberish. Sam grins; it sounds like Dean is close to waking up.

Sooner than anticipated, Dean's shoulders lift from the bed and his eyes pop open hideously, like a ghoul's, as he yells, "Cas!"

Sam's up and out of the chair in an instant, putting himself directly in Dean's line of vision. He's been woken up by Dean in nightmare mode before, and he doesn't intend to make himself a target. "Dean? Hey. You okay?"

Dean freezes still as stone and blinks, slowly, twice. When he speaks, it sounds like he's tripping over his tongue: every word slow and slightly slurred. "Sam? You're back. Did you get the money—for the millwheel?"

  
"Yeah," Sam says. Dean's slow speech is not encouraging: Sam knows he's slowing himself down. He does this so he doesn't spiral out—scream, hit, kick, cry. Stillness, slowness, are his protections against destruction—but what does Dean want to destroy? "Dropped it off at the miller's already. Should take a few days to fix." Sam shifts the stool a little closer to the bed, causing his legs to cramp where they're constricted by the low furniture, but right now he doesn't care. Dean is _freaked_. He hasn't seen him like this since—since—

Since they were children. Dean hasn't had the nightmares that bleed into waking and make him grip himself so tight and still since then.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asks. "Looks like you were having a nightmare."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Happens, sometimes. I just spent a few months outrunning a demon, so. Flashbacks, I guess." He looks down with one hand on the back of his neck, and Sam knows. He sighs a little. Dean is a terrible liar. Objectively, not just to him.  

But he's terrified, and Sam doesn't want to take on an accusatory tone right now. "I can't even imagine what you went through," Sam says, keeping his tone soft. "But you don't have to hide anything from me." Sam gets Dean's hand in a firm grip that he hopes is grounding, reassuring. "Bobby told me the demon's still alive. I don't care. I'm just glad you made it back."

It's true. As true as the fact Dean's lying. And the red rimes around his eyes and the slump of his shoulders tell him that Dean needs more rest.

He gets up off the stool and moves toward the door. "One more thing," Sam says from the doorway.

"What, Sam?"

"It's just— Who's Cas?"

Dean blinks, then ducks his head. "I don't know, Sam."

Sam squints in that way which irritates Dean to the core of his being. "Yeah, not buying it," Sam says. "Thing is, the only 'Cas' I know of is Cassie Robinson, your first girlfriend. The one who humiliated you and ran off with that drifter, remember?"

"Ow, Sam," Dean says. "Don't rub it in." Sam remembers little of Cassie; all he really recalls is her dark head of curls and her independent spirit. She'd been someone Dean could have left Lawrence with, but she had left without him.

Though he and Dean have emphatically not talked about it, Sam has always known Dean wants to leave. He wishes he could help his brother, but wishes don't accomplish much, and leaving right now is impossible. The winter, the food shortage, no money, a baby coming—Sam's got too much on his plate to eat right now.

But Dean needs him right now.

"I don't mean to rub it in," Sam says. "But you're acting strange, and that dream you had definitely centered around a 'Cas.'" He pauses, then leans closer to Dean in a confidential pose. "I won't tell anyone. You know I won't."

Sam knows Dean trusts him—as much as he trusts Bobby; as much as he trusts anyone. And Sam will almost certainly yank this information out of him eventually—by continuing to spy, or by dogging his heels and asking the same questions over and over with different words. It's a strategy that's worked since Sam's been small; he's refined it to a science.

Dean slaps the palms of his heels on his thighs. "I'm cold," Dean says. "I want a drink. Then I'll tell you all about Cas."

"The edited version or the real one?"

Dean snorts, and doesn't answer.

"Wow. That bad?"

"Just—get me that drink."

Sam has a scarily accurate ability to read him. It's a trait they share. His father John had always claimed he and Dean could read one another's minds as if they had the same one. That's not quite true, but something is making his brother extremely nervous, and Sam is determined to find out what that is.

Sam pours a glass of hard cider—cold now, unfortunately—into a cup for Dean, then settles on Bobby's bed next to him. He wonders where Bobby's sleeping tonight, and sincerely hopes he won't find him in the barn, or somewhere worse.

Dean pounds back the cider in one go—while Sam winces—and says, "Cas was possessed by the demon. Long time ago, now. Decades." Dean sighs. "And I left—"

He ducks his head and holds out his cup for another hit, but Sam doesn't pour. "Cas—short for what?"

Dean looks at him with a little frown. "Castiel."

Sam's eyes widen. "Why is that name familiar?"

"You mean you've heard of him?"

"I've seen his name. Court records. Marriage certificates—something—"

"He's not married," Dean says.

Sam smirks. "Okay, but—" Suddenly, Sam's face freezes, because he knows exactly where he's seen the name before. Bobby keeps a book of names: people he lost to the fire.

And Castiel's is in there.

"Castiel Milton," Sam says. "Impossible. He's dead. He died in the fire."

It's Dean's turn for snark: "He might agree with you. The demon took him over—part-time, anyway—and killed people for kicks."

"Did it start the fire?"

"No," Dean says. "Crowley lit the house on fire, and it spread. That's what killed—"

Mom. Dean won't say it, and Sam won't, but they give one another a long look, and Dean offers a shaky nod. "He was there. He—showed me."

Sam nods slowly. "And why did you leave him?"

Dean's eyes mist, and his voice comes out harsh as he says, "He killed Jo."

Ducking his head, Sam lets out a slow breath. "It wasn't the demon? He did it?"

"Same difference."

No. It really isn't.

The silence stretches out, and Sam stands again. "I think you need sleep," Sam says. "And tomorrow, after we get you home, I'll dig through the books at the office to find the best exorcism spell there is."

"Why?"

Sam makes the effort to put on his best smile. "We're gonna save Cas."

"From the demon?"

"Yeah."

Dean covers his eyes with one hand. "I'm—not sure that's possible."

Something in his tone tells Sam that Dean had tried to save Castiel, and tried hard. The thought makes Sam swallow deliberately. Dean might not think himself much of a hunter, but his instincts have always been better than Sam's.

Dean had been cornered by a demon that outclassed him for months—how had he survived?

Cas. Had to be. Castiel Milton had kept Dean alive, somehow.

"Let me worry about that," Sam says. If Castiel Milton—Cas—had fought the demon with Dean that long, then fighting it _is_ possible. Sam will find a way. "Sleep."

Dean nods and collapses to the bed. "Sleep. God, I need it."

Sam leaves him and goes home, sneaking into bed with an irritated Jessica, but it's a long time before he goes to sleep himself. Dean's nightmare unsettles Sam, almost as if he's the one who'd had it. The only one Dean's had nightmares about before is mom, as far as Sam knows. And the way he'd talked around Cas the person and Cas the demon-possessed monster had given him hints—

Dean…cares about Cas. More than he does most people, more like he cares about Bobby or dad or Sam himself. He hadn't said it, not outright, but Sam knows. He turns and spoons against Jess's back, and she murmurs something sleepy and contented, and Sam _knows._

He has to help his brother save Castiel Milton. That's all there is to it.

 

***

 

Sam walks out the door the next morning without eating breakfast, his journal under his arm. Jessica is so peeved at the idea of being left alone again that she decides to accompany him to Bobby's, swollen ankles be damned, and Sam doesn't have the heart to refuse her.

He knocks on Bobby's door four times before letting himself and Jessica in. The odor of cooking meat fills the air, and Sam wonders if Bobby will let them eat with him. He pokes his head in the kitchen, Jessica hot on his heels, and sees Dean at the stove heating what looks like ground beef and Bobby at the counter pouring something that looks suspiciously like whisky into a shot glass.

"Breakfast of champions," Sam mutters. Louder, he says, "Room for two more?"

Bobby starts, looks up, and grunts, which Sam takes as assent. Dean's eyes are bloodshot and his clothing is the same rumpled getup he went to sleep in; he scarcely acknowledges that Sam and Jess are there.

Jessica's eyes flit over the kitchen counters; she finds a pitcher of water that looks clean and brings it to the table. Probably snowmelt, or stores from Bobby's rain barrels. She weaves around Bobby and Dean to set the table with plates and cups and forks, then sits down, rubbing one red ankle with a little frown. Sam settles into a chair next to her while Dean and Bobby putter around the kitchen, finishing cooking.

Bobby produces milk, stale bread and half-melted butter from somewhere, and the four of them tear into the meal as if they're starving. Dean and Bobby probably are: the food shortage hit Bobby hard, and Dean had nearly starved on the road. Sam looks down at his pebbly-textured meat with gratitude.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam says.

Jessica nods her thanks and shovels bread into her mouth. Her stomach growls, and she reaches for the pitcher of water to pour herself more.

Sam finishes eating and shifts his empty plate to the side. He reveals a slim volume open to a page in Latin, and blinks.

"Working late?" Sam asks, holding up the book.

Bobby shrugs and doesn't look up from his plate. "Dean told me to find the exorcism I used on Karen. There it is."

Karen. Bobby's wife. "Oh."

The rest of the meal passes in silence, as if everyone's nervous about disturbing Karen's spirit—or about provoking Bobby into a worse mood. Bobby rises to collect the dishes, insisting that Jessica stay put when she gets up to help.

As Jessica settles back next to Sam, Dean rests his chin in his hands and takes the book from Sam. "We have the ingredients on hand, but it's gonna take all day to make."

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like any other exorcism I've heard of. Or used."

Dean shrugs. "We're not dealing with an ordinary demon."

"Wait, demons?" Jessica asks, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. "You exorcise demons? Are you priests?"

Bobby snorts from the kitchen sink.

Dean shakes his head. "We're hunters—kind of."

She looks to Sam for confirmation, and he nods. "We kill monsters. Exorcising demons is part of the job." So is killing them, but this demon is one they can't kill.

Using the same spell that Bobby cast on Karen makes him nervous—the spell had removed the demon, but Karen had already been dead.

Shit. If Cas is already dead—

The red rims around Dean's eyes and the defeated cut of his shoulders make sense now. "You need me for anything?"

Bobby and Dean exchange glances. "Watch the pot," Bobby orders, "and guard the Colt."

"The Colt?"

"We think the Crowleys may be after it."

Sam nods his understanding. "Where is it?"

"Study. Grab it."

"What about me?" Jessica asks. "What can I do?"

Dean gets up from the table. "You can come with me," Dean says. "I'm going door-to-door with Bobby's extra stores—something to keep the town going until the mill's up and running again. And remind me to go to the glassblowers'."

"Sarah Blake?"

"That's the one." Dean mutters something under his breath and goes to the next room, out of sight. Jessica gives him a look that's almost pleading: she wants him to go with her. "Should I go, too, Bobby?"

"No," Bobby says. "If the Crowleys come, I want you with me." He casts a sympathetic look Jessica's way and says, "Dean'll treat you fine. Just don't talk to him too much."

Jessica nods shakily and arranges her shawl around her shoulders. "When do we start?"

 

***

  


Some hours later, Sam stands over one of Bobby's cauldrons, mixing more holy water into a saline solution. The Colt digs into his hip, held in place by his belt. Garth comes by with a cut of lamb and news: Zachariah Milton is leaving, and the millwheel should be fixed by the end of the week. He'd also run into a frazzled Dean and Jessica, but their efforts seem to be well-received by the town: it doesn't seem that anyone's starved to death as yet.

When he finishes mixing the solution to the right viscosity, he takes the cauldron off the heat and sets it aside to cool. This done, he decides to head into town and do some clerking—and maybe pick up some extra money—before going home.

Sam peeks into Bobby's living room before he goes, relieved to find Bobby dozing in a pile of blankets near the fire and Garth sitting bolt upright in a chair, fast asleep. Dean and Jessica choose this exact moment to enter through the front door, waking both Bobby and Garth suddenly; they apologize and make their goodbyes.

Bobby grabs Sam's shoulder as he passes and says, "You and Dean should probably head back to the woods before too long."

Damn. Solstice is only a few weeks away, and if the snowfall's thick it will take almost a week to retrace the route. He nods resolutely. "I'll tell Dean." Then he remembers what he wanted to ask Bobby, before. "Hey, Bobby?" he says.

Bobby lets Sam's shoulder go and collapses in his chair again. "Yeah, Sam?"

"Did dad have a brother?"

Bobby's eyes flutter open and stay that way. "Long time ago, sure."

"What happened to him?"

"He was a witch, I think," Bobby says. "Crowley killed him."

"Oh." A witch and a murder, and no one had told him? Did Dean know? Did--but he can ask these questions later. "One more thing."

"What?"

"What was his name?"

Bobby nods thoughtfully. "Michael. Now git, I'm tired."

His eyes shut at the same time Sam closes the door.

Despite his worry about time being short, Sam is relieved to finally have the spell ready, and that he'd managed to fill in some of the gaps of his family history. He whistles all the way home, Dean mocking him for his inability to carry a tune. He doesn't notice the shadow of Adam moving alongside them in the dark.

When he gets home, he doesn't notice that the Colt is missing from his belt.

And he certainly doesn't notice that Ruby Crowley's handkerchief is tucked into Adam's pocket.

 


	34. Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that wee delay...I got stomach flu very badly, and then I was laid off, so it's been tough to get my mojo back. Chapter title is apropos, methinks. 
> 
> Some animal cruelty in this one...sorry, but baddies will be baddies.

Proving once again that she's the most observant person in the Winchester household, Jessica is first to notice that the Colt is missing.

At breakfast, she asks Sam where he put it, and Sam reaches for his belt reflexively, finding it gone. "Weird," Sam says. "I don't remember putting it down."

Dean grunts, a wordless acknowledgement that communicates that he will deal with the problem after he has had coffee. John looks from Jessica to Sam with a little frown. "I didn't even know we still had that gun."

"Me neither," Adam says, reaching for a fresh roll in the center of the table. The millers had sent over a sack of flour gratis in thanks for John and Sam's help restoring the mill to working condition, and Jess and Dean had tripped over one another to use it: Jess for bread, Dean for pie.

Which explains why Dean is having pie for breakfast, and is more consumed with eating than thinking at the moment.

Sam sits up in his chair, thinking about all the possible places he could have left the gun when he got home, but he genuinely does not remember putting it down. Hell, he hadn't even undressed when he'd gotten home, preferring to plop right into bed after a long day of research and spellwork.

Maybe the gun had fallen under the bed somehow?

Sam finishes breakfast quickly, nearly upending the rickety table as he stands, and goes to search his room. Any hidden glint of metal—coins, pins, his old silver knife—fills him with brief and temporary relief. Minutes that feel like hours drag on, and there's no sign of any gun anywhere—much less the Colt.

"Did you find it?" Dean asks, poking his head into Sam's room.

"No."

"Then we'd better hope Bobby has it," Dean says, "because we have to get going. Now."

Sam's forehead creases. "Why?"

"Remember that horse that brought dad back?"

"The one you stole to go to the woods? Yeah."

Dean gives him a flensing sort of look, as if he'd like to peel Sam's skin off, or his own. They haven't talked about Dean's leaving, and if that look is any indication, they're not about to in the near future. "It's here. Again."

Sam blinks. The horse from the demon. Cas has sent for Dean—or the demon has. "Well," Sam says, looking around his disheveled room with an expression of near-hopelessness. "I'll be ready in five."

"Make it three, bitch."

 

***

 

Sam and Dean leave a little before nine, bags hastily tied to the demon horse and to Tamora, Bobby's nag that Sam had borrowed. Bobby had gotten ready her ready that morning, planning to head to the woods himself that day. That bit of luck had saved them some time, but leaving Bobby there alone—without the gun, and without backup—makes Sam nervous. Garth's little wave and call of, "He's still got me!" are of little comfort.

The road through the woods is slick with ice and fresh-fallen snow, the temperature hovering right around the freezing point. Their path treacherous, Sam and Dean opt to move in a straight line, one horse behind the other, so that at least one of them will have warning if black ice takes out one of the horses. Dean insists on going first, even though Tamora's shoes appear newer than the ones on the demonic horse.

Sometimes, Sam wishes Dean would stop protecting him. Just a little. It would be so stupid—and typical—of his brother to die of something like a broken neck from slipping on ice. 

Right now, it's just him and his brother on the road; Bobby had wanted to pack Rufus with more specialty ingredients, in case they were needed, and had promised to catch them up. They spend half a day traveling. Dean refuses to talk, and Sam is too tired to make him—he probably should have had more coffee that morning. He can see Dean's nerves in the sharp line of his shoulders through the winter coat, the cutting gleam of his eyes on the road. Dean's not looking forward to what they're going to find.

Sam's not, either. If Bobby is to be believed about this demon and the McCloud conspiracy, then Cas is probably dead and a pissed-off, super-powerful demon is waiting for them. It could be watching them now. Scary thought. He stays awake as long as possible, but the long night and earlier-than-anticipated start means that he's soon dozing in his saddle. Tamora's gait is steady, easy, and it's getting dark. He's dressed a little too warmly, layer on layer on layer, and he probably falls completely asleep at some point but he doesn't remember when. 

He starts to full wakefulness when Dean says his name. "Sam," he says. "Company."

"Where?" Sam asks, blinking crust out of his eyes.

"In the trees, or—" Dean pauses, then whistles. "Actually, I think that's the hedge. We're here."

Here, in this case, is a clearing at the end of a stone path. The sky is so overcast it's near black, and the forest ahead of them looks thicker than usual. As his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, Sam sees what Dean is looking at and whistles, impressed. Like Dean, he's seen the hedge before: he's got hex bags in his saddlebag that can cut through the flames. The gnarl of thorns before him, though, appears much more wicked than when he'd seen it last. The snow clinging to the sharp points gleams like knives' edges—and it's so thick that it blocks any view of what could possibly be on the other side.

Frankly, Sam's impressed Dean could pick up on anyone hiding in that.

"I don't see."

Dean backs his demon horse up a few steps, providing Sam with a slightly better view. "Three o'clock." 

Sam looks left and sees a hint of red fluttering, like a flag. "Huh. You're right. Anything we can do about it?"

"Probably not," Dean says. "But be ready. If they're watching the hedge, they're watching the gate."

Right. There's a gate. Sam is grateful for the rest he'd gotten on the way here; it looks like they're headed straight for a fight. But a fight with what? 

Dean clucks his tongue and urges his horse forward. Sam follows at a little distance, the path becoming increasingly uneven and muddy as he goes, the ground slightly viscous even in the dead of winter. When they're a few hundred yards away, Sam sees it: the rusted wrought iron that marks the way in, and the beginning of the barrier of fire. He has his hex bags to hand as it comes into view, ready to break both himself and Dean through.

Before he can pull a hex bag out of his traveler's satchel, there's a sound like a bird call that makes him sit tall. Tamora snorts. Dean cocks one ear to the side. "Sounds like a signal call."

"Correct," a raspy, cultured voice says out of the dark. "That's a confirmation call. We have you surrounded."

The voice is familiar: Crowley McCloud. But Sam had thought him bedridden after the fire—

Apparently not. Dean, to his credit, shows no fear, even though he's sure his brother doesn't know where the voice is coming from. The demon horse's ears go back sharply, and Dean spares a moment to calm it. "That so?" Dean asks. "And who is 'we'?"

Crowley chuckles nastily, but doesn't answer the question. Another low bird call that reminds Sam of a thrush sounds, and then something thuds into his shoulder with the force of a blow, nearly unseating him and causing Tamora to scream in terror.

Sam feels the arrow before he sees it—just—and judges that he's been hit by a crossbow, based on the speed. Fortunately, the bolt has gone clear through his shoulder—all he has to do is break the arrowhead, pull out the shaft and bandage up until he can clean the wound. Easy. 

Or it would be, if Dean was not frantically calling to him for a response. "I'm fine," he calls. "Shoulder hit." His words are slurred, and he understands: poison. Neurotoxin or knockout drops? He's not sure, and he struggles to form words; his grip on Tamora wavers for a moment. 

Then he gets a shot of adrenaline, potent and fierce; he uses the sudden clarity to snap the arrow off and pull the shaft out. The wound fountains blood for a moment, spattering everywhere, and Sam mutters over the hex bag in his hand. It bursts into flames, burning the wound closed around the edges, slowing the bleeding to a trickle. 

Sam's breath fogs his vision; his legs nearly give out, but he stays up and on Tamora. 

The hex bag had stopped the bleeding, but it would do nothing for the poison.

"Your brother's not feeling well," Crowley says in a solicitous tone, voice echoing through the trees and over the hedge, confusing Sam's sense of direction. "I think you'd better take him home."

Dean hesitates for a few seconds, looking caught between impossible options. Then his shoulders straighten, and he catches Sam's eye. "Forgive me."

Sam blinks. "For what?"

Without warning, the demon horse rears up and gallops toward the iron gate at breakneck speed, Dean holding onto the mane for dear life. Tamora makes a comparatively sluggish effort to follow, and gives up after a few dozen yards. Unfortunately, the sudden change in speed causes Sam to lose his tenuous grip on the horse, and he slips off suddenly off Tamora's back, managing to keep his feet primarily thanks to his height. 

Disoriented, Sam locates Tamora ahead of him. Stumbling after slowly, he catches her up and leans on her flank for support. She'd gotten them close enough to the gates for Sam to see the shadow of Dean and his horse as it sails over the top of the gate, over the hedges, as if Dean is capable of flight.

Sam blinks again, stunned. Then he takes another hex bag to hand and climbs over Tamora's back in a tangle of limbs, his shoulder screaming pain at the effort. Sam goads Tamora into a trot by force of will, thinking to dismount near the gate, put out the fire barrier and back through the thorns with his machete.

"Damn it, Dean," Sam says. Always leaving him behind. They really do need to talk about this at some point. Sam checks Tamora three feet from the gate, hurling the hex bag at the thinnest part of the hedge—that is, at the point where he can see something through it aside from black, icicle-covered thorns. On the other side, there's light like fire, orange and red, and Sam swallows. Demons like fire. He has to hurry.

"Well, well, well," Sam hears from behind him—or is it ahead?—the poison messes with his senses. "Look who's stuck back here with me."

Even in his addled state, he has no trouble identifying the voice.

Ruby McCloud. His ex-betrothed. Someone closer to him than she should be, given her—activities. His hand goes instinctively to his injured shoulder, bringing the consumed hex bag with it, and he gets a flash of sense memory: Ruby teaching him to mix poultices to take to Ellen; Ruby showing him spell books Bobby didn't have—

\--Ruby hanging rabbits upside-down and skinning them alive; Ruby sacrificing her dog of seven years to the darkness to guarantee her family's fortune.

Sam loves knowledge, and once, that had been enough to convince Sam that he'd loved her. When he'd seen the lengths to which she allowed power to erode her humanity, he had rejected her, seeing her for what she was—but still. It's going to be hard to kill her. 

He takes it as a good sign that his resolve in that regard is clear. Maybe the poison's starting to wear off.

"Slow today, are we?" Ruby asks in a light tone, as if they're only out here picking herbs or having a study picnic. "Here, let me catch up."

Sam still can't identify which direction the voice is coming from, but the increased volume tells Sam she is getting closer. He's glad he'd decided to mount up, weakness or no; height has always given him an advantage, and he hears no hoofbeats around or behind him.

Or in front of him—which must mean Dean has stopped.

Dean's on the other side of the gate—maybe with Crowley. It's impossible to process, and distracts him from dealing with Ruby; he'll follow Dean when she's dead. He takes a deep breath, steadying his pulse, and catches a flash of something metallic out of the corner of his eye. He twitches his head away from its path, and sees a long straight knife clank between two of the gate's wrought iron poles. He grabs it before it can drop, and turns Tamora as quickly as he can with his knees.

At least he's armed, now. And facing the right direction: from his high vantage point, he spots Ruby hiding among the trees a few dozen yards from him, crouched low. Their eyes connect, and she stands, approaching in shuffling steps that make the snow shush under her booted feet. The cloak around her shoulders is as black as her hair, contrasting sharply with the white gleam of her skin and silver flash of another blade: shorter this time, Sam notes, and likely more suited to throwing than the one he has. The image she presents is shaky, totally black and white; Sam feels that he's lost color vision for a moment.

But it's only a moment, and he's wasting time. As Ruby approaches him with a knife in her hand, Sam charges Tamora forward, hoping to knock her over or at least distract her long enough to gain an advantage. Ruby dodges, and the horse lets out a shriek like a banshee's.

Sam pulls Tamora up more sharply than he intends—reflexes shot, and the horse screams again, and he'll definitely have to make this up to her (and Bobby) later—but the speed allows him to avoid Ruby's knife, which had embedded itself in Tamora's shoulder near the bone. Sam sees the wound, slick and shiny in the growing dark, and now the horse can't be calmed.

She's still screaming when she throws Sam, and his vision blacks out as his head connects with something sharp.

He can still feel himself breathing.

He wonders how long that will last.


	35. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is more fair to John than he deserves. Still, the John of canon kills the monster—no matter what—and doesn't break, except for his boys. I've treated him like shit for most of this story, and now he wants his say, so…here you go, I guess.

John is drunk, not unobservant. He's been keeping track of the Colt since Sam first took it to Bobby's; he knows exactly when it went missing. He knows, too, that Dean is not responsible; he's been gone, and knows nothing about the gun.

That leaves Kate, and Adam.

Kate had never been involved with witchcraft: much though he complains about her activities, he knows she doesn't have a lick of talent—or interest—in that direction.

Which leaves Adam. Adam, who is far too interested in the demon and the forest and the gun John brought back: that much John can tell by how hard he tries to hide his excitement over anything to do with John's brief disappearance, and Dean's lengthy one. 

John can be drunk, because Adam isn't subtle. 

Before the loss of the wagons and his son to the demon, he would have had to investigate the servants, too. Thank poverty for small blessings.

So he watches Adam carefully. He has known of Sam's powers since his birth. Dean had never presented any, though he looked most like his father—and John's own power is meager, slight, compared to his brother's. 

For this reason—and because he had always distrusted that part of himself—it had gone undetected. Even by Sam, who had surpassed him long ago. He is good at holing up; staying hidden: he's learned it from the monsters he hunted in his youth, and from his business ventures in old age. Sticking out makes targets of people; unobtrusiveness allows them to pass, invisible.

And John has. And Adam has no powers: that much is clear. Like Dean, he had never presented any. Unlike Dean, he had always wanted them. His affair with Ruby McCloud is of long standing, and entirely one-sided: Sam is the only one she's ever wanted, and John has been checking Jessica's clothes and bedding and toiletries for hex bags ever since she moved in.

He dislikes the girl, but he doesn't wish her killed. Her bright hair and determined attitude recall Mary to him, however pale an imitation she may be. His feelings for Mary are fraught as broken violin strings, but he does still love her. He understands Sam. Choosing between Jess and Ruby had been a choice between light and darkness, and John thinks Sam had made the right one.

Jessica putters around him in the kitchen where he sits and drinks his breakfast, directing his eyes to the floor near the outside window. He watches Sam and Dean pack up out of the corner of his eye. They disregard him, thinking him too far gone to react or care; this is how it has been since Sam's wedding, his intervention with Zachariah aside.

John is drunk, but not nearly so much as he appears to be. He sips a gin and tonic that's mostly tonic, and gets up to pour himself a glass of water. Jessica sternly orders him to sit and brings it to him herself, and as he scans her expression he realizes that she feels sorry for him. 

That expression makes him think he might actually be too drunk. He downs the glass of water in one go, and without asking it is replaced, wordlessly, by another. 

While he nurses the second glass, he notices what Sam and Dean pack. It appears that neither one of them had retrieved the gun. That's a fair guess; he hasn't noticed either one of them tailing Adam, and they have no real reason to watch him. Still, it's unfortunate. That gun is the best leverage against the demon they'd had—and they've lost it. To  _ Adam,  _ of all people.

John snorts into his glass. When Bobby Singer had come to him with plans to create bullets to kill demons, John had known just how big such a discovery might be—and that the demon would likely use any means to prevent them from putting that discovery into practice. The gun’s connection to Michael is something he feels he should have figured out himself; the demon he’d talked to had clearly had a human master, partly in control.

The idea that Dean had spent the last six months with the twisted remnant of his long-lost brother makes his skin crawl. Bobby isn’t convinced that the demon took Michael as a host, but he relays what Sam had managed to get out of Dean as best he can, and John theorizes that he’s correct. Some part of Michael had survived that fire, and had managed to give John--and then Dean--the power to kill the demon possessing him.

John and his brother hadn’t gotten along; not really. But as a hunter, he owes him the consideration of a clean death, avenged on the thing that had killed him long ago. 

Hence his interest in a gun that can kill demons.

Despite Bobby's long experience and John's natural gift for understanding his brother’s magic, they had not been able to determine how to use the bullets without the gun. The bullets might harm ordinary demons: holy water and Enochian etchings embedded under demon skin were bound to do something. Heck, they might work as exorcism pellets. But killing demons almost certainly required the gun.

He thinks "almost certainly" because neither he nor Bobby had found a demon to test it on before Sam had taken the gun from Bobby's. From there, Adam must have taken it and given it to Ruby. John had witnessed this event, sort of, if hearing Adam sneaking over their creaking floorboards and whispering at the door counts as "witness." Bobby had also placed a tracking spell on the gun when it had first fallen into his possession, to make sure it wouldn't leave town before they needed it. 

Bobby is more certain than John of the gun's efficacy by virtue of his study of the spells. John has limited interest in that: because of spells, his brother died.

Magic should not exist.

The world is not about to rearrange itself around this view.

Demons should also not exist, and that's something he can do something about. Killing them—erasing them from existence—is at least theoretically possible, and he wants to put theory into practice.

He finishes his second glass of water. Jessica plops a third next to his hand. He takes it to his study, goes out to relieve himself, and starts poring over Bobby's notes. There's a prototype bullet on his desk—one that Bobby swears won't kill anything supernatural—and he fiddles with it in his hands as he reads, waiting making him strangely nervous. The alcohol does this to him, sometimes, making time stretch thin over the world like a moth-eaten blanket, slowing everything down just a little more than usual.

He can hear Sam and Dean talking outside, but the words are lost through the wall. When he doesn't hear them anymore, voices drowned out by hooves clacking on mud and stone, John gets up and assembles his own gear: leather jacket, boots, jerkin, pack; hunter's arsenal including silver knives, a quarterstaff and a gun; enough food for three days' travel. 

Taking the quarterstaff in hand, John goes outside to find Bobby. He'll be bringing the horses up shortly. Neither he nor Bobby wants the boys going into that hornets' nest alone.

Instead of Bobby, John finds Adam standing in the door to the stable, looking out as if he's also waiting for someone. He probably is—though Bobby had told him Ruby and Crowley had left town yesterday morning. If Adam had been with them, Bobby would have stopped them—he'd know it if the gun were leaving town.

But if Ruby and Crowley are gone, who is Adam waiting for?

Blinking surprise, John says, "What? Didn't want to go with your brothers to the woods?"

Adam sulks. "They didn't ask me," he says. "And besides, who'd be here to take care of you if I went, too?"

Jessica, for one. Though her pregnancy is fairly far along, she's remained active and strong through all of it, complaining only when she wants Sam to do something for her. Quietly, he approves this, though of course he'd never tell her that. Mary's pregnancies had each been different, but Sam had kept her bedridden for three months before the birth, and it had been difficult to work around.

"Nice thought," John mutters, "but I'm sure you wanna go. Get on over to Bobby's and grab a  horse. I'm sure they could use your help."

Adam hesitates, and his eyes flick down, hand twitching toward his pocket, and that's the only confirmation John needs. Stepping forward in a flash of movement, he yanks open Adam's pocket and takes hold of something solid. By the time Adam's hand covers his, John's already stepping back, spinning as he goes to take Adam down to the ground.

He doesn't need to look to know what he has.

The Colt.

Bobby had been right. The gun's still in town. What were these people, stupid?

John cocks the gun and points it to where Adam lies prone. Adam's breath is visible in the freezing air, and his shoulders shake where he sits on the ground. For a second, John thinks he's having a seizure, but then he hears the laughter, high-pitched and semi-hysterical.

"Go ahead, old man," Adam says through peals of laughter. "Take your shot. Only one bullet."

John keeps the gun cocked and pointed. There are other bullets, though their efficacy has not been tested. He's willing to take his chances.

"Why, son?" John asks, even though he's sure he knows. He's also sure Adam had considered himself so clever in his clumsiness, and for a second he feels stab of pity. Adam, so much less capable than his brothers—but no less loved, at least in his early childhood. Hell, Adam is the only one of his boys with his mother living, and still too young to marry. 

Adam's eyes are slick-bright with tears that don't escape the corners of his eyes. "It would mean something," Adam says, "to free a demon that powerful. Maybe—he would give me—" Adam swallows. "You wouldn't understand."

John understands perfectly. He had lost Mary to a witch before he'd ever lost her to the demon.

So he doesn't shoot Adam. With a perfunctory sigh, like breath being punched out, he rams the butt of the gun into the base of Adam's skull. The boy's eyes roll back, and his knees collapse under him so that he lies face-up and prone on the ground.

With the Colt in hand and Adam knocked out to his satisfaction, John resumes his trek to Bobby's, wobbling only a little with each step.

He can be drunk. It's cold out here, and he can't have his blood freezing on him.

 

***

 

When he gets to Bobby's, he discovers a shut house: the accursed man has left without him. The back door is open—to all except supernatural beasties, of course; Bobby's security is better than that—and he finds a note telling John when they'd gone.

An hour or so, give or take. Enough time to catch up—if Bobby had left him a damn horse.

Before he goes to the stable, John searches Bobby's study for more prototype bullets. He finds half a dozen etched iron pieces in a drawstring bag and pockets them all. Heck, any bullets are useful against humans, and Adam has to have been working with the McClouds. He wouldn't mind shooting Crowley through that ugly mug of his—or his ice queen daughter through her black heart.

John is drunk, and stamps his feet, both against the cold and against the thought that Sam would have ever been involved with such a creature.

Bullets retrieved, John goes out to the stable and finds Rufus half-saddled with an irritated look in his eye. Clearly, Bobby had tried to ride him out, but Rufus (in typical fashion) had decided he wanted to stay. The fact that the saddle's still buckled on must mean Bobby had left in haste; his note hadn't indicated why he'd left early, but John would bet that Sam and Dean's leaving had something to do with it.

John finishes putting on Rufus' tack and opens the stable door. Though Rufus makes a low sound like contempt, he lets John mount up and ride out. John strikes for the main road out of town and attempts a steady pace that keeps turning into a canter: Rufus never likes being controlled. 

The sun’s high before he sights anyone at all on the road. The traveler before him has no horse, but is in a long wool cloak that looks like one of Bobby’s, so he hails the traveler and digs his heels in hard to stop Rufus from bolting on him. 

When the traveler looks up, the hood of the cloak falls back a little, revealing a blue-lipped Ellen Harvelle.

“Damn, woman,” John says. “What the hell’re you doing out here alone?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Same as you, I expect.” She approaches, bold as brass, and pats Rufus squarely on the nose. The horse stills under her touch, and John frowns. 

“He seems to like you.”

“Everyone likes me, asshole.” She cocks her head to one side, as if listening, and rearranges something over her shoulder: a worn wool pack the same color as her cloak. “And unless you’re planning to give me a ride…”

John flicks his eyes between her and the horse and sighs. Reluctantly, he holds out his hand to her, and she grips it, using the leverage of their joined fingers to pull her legs up and over the horse’s back. She clings to John for a moment once she’s on, then lets go, holding onto the horse with her legs like any trained rider.

The brief grip of her hands is bony and weaker than he remembers, and he thinks she probably hasn’t been eating enough.

Damn the Miltons to Hell and blood.

They ride for an hour before John sights Bobby on the road--a gray speck on a dark horse--and it takes another fifteen minutes before they’re caught up. John notices that Bobby had borrowed a horse from the McClouds: a mean-spirited beast that Alistair had liked riding, before he’d died. Uriel, John thinks, recalling the name with a sudden flash of sense memory: Uriel kicking Castiel Milton in the chest as a child.

And Michael healing the child’s broken ribs.

John blinks and buries the memory. Uriel is old now, and Bobby had foregone the bit and bridle to ride with just saddle, pommel and reins, but despite the fairly gentle treatment the horse is finicky and twitchy, moving from foot to foot as John and Ellen approach. 

“WInchester,” Bobby says, inclining his head slightly. “Harvelle.”

Ellen offers him a sharp, wolfish smile. “You weren’t thinking of starting the party without us, were you?”

Bobby’s answering smile is just as sharp, but the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes make it softer. “Hell no, woman. Whatcha bring?”

The next few minutes are spent exchanging inventory lists and allocating weapons. Ellen had brought most of her poultices, creams, oils and analgesics, bandages and tourniquets; she had also brought a knife of pure silver with an iron handle with her late husband’s initials engraved on the hilt. Bobby offers her one of his extra guns--a blunderbuss with enough ammunition (powder and shot)  to reload three times. Most of his bullets are the spelled and etched kind, and John can tell he doesn’t want to part with them.

Bobby has his hunting rifle, and when John hands him the Colt, he loads it and hands it back.  

They’re mounting up again when John hears the thunderous crack of rifle fire somewhere nearby, and he hits the dirt on instinct, Ellen collapsing next to him. Bobby is hit; Ellen crawls over to him with her pack in hand muttering curses, and John stands up slowly, searching for the shooter.

There’s a flicker of movement ahead of him, in the trees. John rolls, neatly picks up Bobby’s rifle where it had fallen, and cocks, aims  and fires the loaded gun at the movement above him. 

His aim is luckier than he deserves: the shooter above them falls out of the tree, less than a dozen yards from where Bobby lies prone, being treated by Ellen. John discards the rifle--he has no time to load it again--and picks up the Colt, approaching the shooter with cautious steps.

Dark skin illuminated by moonlight has a veneer like sculpted bone; the fierce eyes and expression of rage are unmistakable.

“Walker,” John mutters. At least he’s probably alone. He’s a nut, but most of his partners wind up dead. He spares a second to search for the Henriksen kid, but there’s no movement overhead or in the trees to either side. “What the fucking hell?”

“I’m on a mission from God,” Gordon Walker says, the glint of crazy dancing in his eyes. “You will not interfere.”

“Interfere with what?” Ellen calls.

John points the gun squarely at Gordon’s chest. “Answer her.”

“The angel came to me at night,” he says, sincere in madness. “It said you would come with fire and sword to slay it before it could free itself to accomplish God’s mission.”

Now, John considers himself a God-fearing man, but Gordon is clearly a zealot and John would rather not have his sort on his side. Zealots are too chained by their dogma, too easily manipulated by their unshakable beliefs. Michael had been dogged by zealots, and though they hadn’t ultimately killed him, John remembers their hatreds and petty squabbles well enough to despise them.

Case in point: Gordon clearly is not lying, and Lucifer was, indeed, an angel once. “Angel didn’t tell you its name by chance, did it?”

“All will be revealed in due time,” Gordon says. “The angel said I must stop you. Before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” Solstice morning? John suspects there’s a time window where Lucifer can perform his spell to break free of the gates, but the way Gordon’s phrasing things, it seems more like there’s a time  _ limit-- _ a brief space where they can stop the demon. 

Gordon’s creepy smile gets wider, and he advances on John, dropping his gun in favor of a long knife with one serrated edge: a butcher’s tool. John considers saying something about bringing a knife to a gun fight, but instead settles his index finger on the trigger and prepares to fire.

He doesn’t get the chance. Without warning, a streak of dark brown movement cuts between John and Gordon, so fast his eye can’t track it, and then Gordon is down, knife dropping to the ground with a muffled thump. 

Standing still, the creature is easier to identify, Tufts of fur stick out in all directions from a humanoid skull, but the nose is elongated; fur continues down its naked spine to its tail. Canine incisors make neat work of Gordon’s neck and the flesh of his chest as the creature devours his fresh corpse.

It is wearing the tattered remnants of a pair of pants.

Werewolf.

John levels the gun straight ahead--what a way to be saved--but Bobby lets out a call like a grunt, and John hesitates.

“Wait!” Bobby yells. “Garth, come.”

The werewolf’s ears prick up, then slant to the side of his head as his chin drops to his chest in a posture of remorse. With a yelp, the werewolf lopes toward Bobby. Blood drips from his chin, marking the snow; John notes that his feet leave crisp paw prints. The werewolf’s gait is exactly like Garth’s in human form; the more John looks, the more he sees the resemblance.

“You--trained a werewolf,” John says cautiously, keeping the gun up and pointed vaguely in Garth’s direction.

“He trained himself,” Bobby says, exasperated, “and saved your ass, so shut up and help me tie him to the back of the horse.”

“Why?”

Bobby jerks his head to Garth, whose head is now planted to the ground, hands like paws stretching out in supplication or prayer. “When he gets like this, he either gets lost or eats something he shouldn’t. I’d rather have him with us.”

Garth’s head twitches in the barest approximation of a nod.

John reaches for the flask he always keeps in his inside pocket, and is happy to find it half-full. He is not nearly drunk enough for this shit.


	36. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main character injury and minor character death in this one...it's not like Lucifer to let everyone past the barrier without a fight, after all. Consequences include lots of blood and some messing with characters' heads. No permanent damage to non-baddies, though--I promise.

               Sam chokes on his own air, breath steaming as fresh blood gushes from his half-healed shoulder wound and new head injury. Pain snaps him into sudden concentration, focus; he’s not dead yet and Ruby has to be getting closer.

               Tamora screams--off to his left somewhere, he thinks, but it’s hard to determine; even his new sharp focus gives him no definitive sense of relative direction.

               Where was the danger?

               The sound of feet crunching over old snow reaches him, seeming loud, and he jerks toward it, shielding his head and torso with both arms in an attempt to defend against the next attack. The sound ceases, leaving Sam in semi-dark confusion.

               He has to move.

               Keeping his hands up, he stumbles backward, in what he hopes is the direction away from Ruby—though he can’t be sure. Luck is with him: within ten paces, his spine straightens against the back of a tree so thick and old that it must have survived Lawrence’s fire in his babyhood. Briefly, he pauses to hug the tree in the dark to gauge its breadth; it’s too wide to fit his arms around.

               Good. He needs the support of this solid, wall-like tree.

               Though focusing on more than one thing for stretches of ten seconds or more taxes the resources of his poison-addled pain-jarred brain, he manages to stand up straight against the tree and look out at the same time. There’s some light here, courtesy of the moon, which is moving directly overhead. His own footprints cast shadows, like holes in the ground. As his eyes come into better focus, he realizes he couldn’t ask for better battle conditions on a winter night. It’s bright, without wind, and the snow is a mix of new and old: new enough to preserve tracks, old enough to make a lot of noise when stepped on.

               He isn’t expecting Ruby to come from behind, though he should be. In his brief relief over being able to actually see, he’d neglected to do a perimeter search of the tree. The sound of Ruby’s footprints warns him again, but he’s unable to get a lock on her actual location from that, and she’s charging at him full-speed before he can do so much as string two coherent thoughts together.

               One hand comes up and takes Ruby’s knife into flesh so deep there’s a cracking sound. Better that than his neck, which is what she’d been aiming at, but still—Sam hisses in pain, other hand jerking out by reflex to yank the knife out of Ruby’s hand.

               The awkward angle he needs to grasp it at means that part of the knife stays embedded in his fingers, but he’d rather lose some fingers than his life. Twisting the knife like a doorknob in the direction of his own hand, he locks Ruby’s wrist tight, making her gasp and let go of her weapon.

               Sam’s still holding on to the knife--despite the bone-deep cut on his middle finger and a blood-slick grip. Having a weapon is infinitely better than not having one.

               Cursing, Ruby reaches for the other knife at her waist belt, but Sam’s already got the weapon at her neck. Tensing, Ruby takes a step back, and Sam follows her. Losing the support of the tree, he stumbles a little, but his grip on the knife persists, all his remaining strength going into that arm.

               “You gonna kill me, Sam?” she asks, looking up at him with an expression of childish artlessness that didn’t fool him at all—not anymore.

               He doesn’t answer her in words. Instead, he closes his eyes and pushes the knife into the soft skin of her neck.

               Unsurprisingly, she steps back again, this time waiting for Sam to stumble after her. She uses his forward momentum to cruel advantage and knees him in the balls, hands grappling for the knife that he still hasn’t let drop. His hold on the knife doesn’t loosen even a fraction. It’s like that arm is made of iron: the rest of him might fail, but that arm is going to kill Ruby—if she doesn’t kill Sam first.

               Which is looking like a possibility.

               Counterintuitively—but feeling right, somehow—Sam lets go of his rigid sense of concentration and focus and allows himself to turn and run, while he still has anything like an advantage.

               He makes it backward half a step and falls, clumsy legs spreading under him, graceless and twitching. Ruby descends to his level, her other knife held at his eye level, and he swallows.

               His options aren’t great.

               Ruby retracts her arm for force for a killing blow.

               From behind him, some distance away, Sam hears the sound of more footsteps--and voices.

               “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio.” The sound of Bobby’s gruff Latin inspires Sam to move; Bobby is helping him: the least he can do is participate in his own rescue.

               As Bobby speaks, Sam realizes that he’s hearing an exorcism spell. Though Ruby is still far too close to him for comfort, she doesn’t move any closer. The hilt of the knife she holds dips when her hands start shaking. It’s hard to tell with her face half-hidden in the shadow of the trees, but Sam thinks her face is twitching, too.

               Huh. Sam had always known about Ruby’s witchcraft, but he’d never thought she was actually possessed by a demon. 

               As Ruby convulses like an epileptic, Bobby continues his chant. “Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare. Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis. .Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine…”

               He stops for a second. Two. Three.

               Sam looks over at him, though it’s a struggle to keep his eyes in focus. “Don’t you remember the rest of it?”

               “Hold your horses, idjit.”

               The gap in the chant allows Ruby to move. Instead of attacking Sam, she backs up, stumbling into the trees, then turning to run.

               “Wait!” Bobby yells, which is about as effective as Sam expects. Ruby runs faster, and Bobby snaps, “Garth!”

               A blur of brown movement passes by Sam so fast that his eyes can’t track it, and then Bobby’s rushing toward him, heavy tread loud in the stillness. “You okay, Sam?”

               “Not sure,” he says. “Head wound. I think the shoulder shot is poisoned.”

               Bobby curses and gestures someone else over. “Where the living hell is Dean?”

               “Went over the fence.” Sam coughs, cold air making his lungs feel rigid. “Horse jumped it.”

              Bobby glances over his shoulder. The gate and fence are just barely visible from this angle, and he squints. “That’s impossible.”

              Sam shrugs. “Maybe the poison’s making me hallucinate?”

               “I’ll be the judge of that.” Ellen Harvelle shoulders in front of Bobby and drops cross-legged in front of Sam. One of her frozen hands brushes his forehead, and he hisses; from that brief contact, even Sam can tell he’s got a dangerous fever.

               “Who did it?” she asks.

               “Ruby,” Sam says. As Ellen starts binding off his shoulder, Sam shifts a little to look at Bobby. “How did you know she was a demon?”

               “I didn’t,” Bobby snapped irritatedly. Ellen hands him a roll of burlap cut thin like ribbon, and he  wraps the material tight around Sam’s cut hand. “That spell works on witches, too. I took a guess.” Bobby ties off the burlap tightly, and Sam winces. “All it did was scare her off. We’re gonna need to break out the stronger stuff if we want to kill her.”

               “Like what?”

               Ellen holds up a gallon jug of what Sam presumes is holy water. Another figure stoops down to him in the dark: his father, holding a gun. He blinks a few times before he realizes it is _the_ gun--the one Bobby had said could kill demons. He gets the image of Ellen soaking Ruby like a drowned rat before John shoots her in the head and almost laughs. “I think you underestimate her.”

               Bobby frowns. “No more’n you.”

               Suddenly Sam remembers something. He  looks between his dad, Bobby and Ellen with a little frown and asks, “Isn’t Garth here? Didn’t you send him after Ruby?”

               “I did,” Bobby says, “but it looks like he’s back.” Bobby lets out a low horse-whistle, and a wolf emerges from the tree behind Sam.

               Instinctively, Sam squirms, trying to put distance between his deliciously bleeding self and the predator, but Ellen holds him still.

               “Garth?” Bobby asks.

               “Not here,” the wolf--wait, the _wolf?_ \--says. “Went to the other side.”

               Sam’s too exhausted to be surprised. As Ellen unrolls another bandage to tie around his head, he says, “So, Garth, you’re a werewolf.”

               Garth flashes him a feral grin, all teeth. “Yep.”

               “Planning to mention that at some point?”

               “When it came up, yeah, sure.”

               Sam takes a deep breath and inhales the distinctive tang of iron-rich blood. “You’re not gonna eat me, are you?”

               Garth’s wolf-ears snap back sharply and his expression tightens into controlled lines. “Friends don’t eat friends.”

               Sam closes his eyes and breathes as Ellen finishes tying off the bandage on his head. She spreads some poultice over his shoulder wound: something with mint in it, by the smell, and in a few moments the entire area goes numb. “Thanks, Ellen,” he says, and she gives him a rare and brilliant smile.

               His dad crouches beside him in a protective stance, reminding Sam very strongly of Dean for a moment. “Are there any more of them?”

               “I think so,” Sam says. “Crowley said there were, but I haven’t seen them.”

               John stands up brusquely. “Garth, with me.”

               Garth lets out a low whine, dog-like, as he vanishes with John into the dark stand of trees to Sam’s right.

              “Is it safe, just the two of them searching?”

              Bobby shrugs. “I’m playin’ hurt.” For the first time, Sam’s eyes lock on the bloody bandage covering the upper half of Bobby’s chest. “And we can’t risk losing our doctor.”

              Ellen smirks. “I’ll fight when I gotta,” she says. “It’s all hands on deck.” She bends her head and opens up the bag with her poultices in it, pulling out a large bundle wrapped in cloth. She shoves it at Sam and says, “Cheese. Eat.”

              Sam eats the giant block of semi-frozen cheese, a little at a time, without tasting it. At least it’s diverting as a chewing exercise. The tiny sounds of his teeth grinding together and Bobby and Ellen’s breathing seem to get louder the longer his dad and Garth are gone, their absence expanding the silence.

              Ellen finishes fussing over him and turns back to Bobby. “How’s the chest shot?”

              “Stopped bleedin’ awhile ago.”

              Sam’s eyes flick between them, then beyond them as he hears people emerging from behind the giant tree he’d tried to hide behind at the start of his fight with Ruby. It’s John, Garth—and someone else.

              “Got a live one,” John says, using the butt of the Colt to propel a man forward. His hands are tied behind his back--double- or triple-tied, judging by amount of rope around his elbows--and his eyes gleam black, iris- and pupil-less. Demonic.

              When the man stumbles into a patch of white light, Sam recognizes him.

              Dick Roman.

              One of the two survivors of the wagon attack that had killed so many of Lawrence’s people--and had deprived the Winchesters of much of their wealth and security.

              Sam kicks himself internally. For all he’d known and suspected about Ruby and the McClouds, he’d never considered Dick Roman could be part of a demonic plan.

              It fits, though. It not only explains his survival; it also explains how Lucifer has been able to pass information and materials back and forth through the barrier that surrounds the estate. Dick Roman has been Lucifer’s man on the inside—and now they have him.

               Without preamble, Bobby begins his exorcism spell again:  “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—”

               He stops because Dick Roman is laughing like a maniac.

               “What’s wrong with you?” Sam asks, incredulous. Demons don’t laugh off exorcisms…

               Two dead black eyes fix on him, focusing somehow, and a voice that is not Dick Roman’s asks, “You think that something like that works on something like me?”

               Bobby continues his exorcism, but Sam blocks that out. He’s talking to whatever thing has taken over Dick Roman.

               It laughs off an exorcism, which means it’s probably _not_ a demon.

               “What are you?” Sam asks, pitching his voice to carry over Bobby’s.”

               Dick Roman’s neck twists to an unnatural angle. “Smart boy. Lucy said you were.”

               “That’s not an answer.”

               Bobby’s voice doesn’t waver, and he’s nearing the end of the exorcism. The thing that had been Dick Roman doesn’t seem bothered in the least.

               Dick slaps both hands to his knees: he’s freed his hands, and John, Bobby and Sam retreat instinctively.

               Ellen stays where she is, holding the silver knife in one hand. As Dick pitches forward, she slashes the soft flesh of his neck open, sending blood gushing over the snow in a thick red-black line. Lightning quick, almost too fast to see, she pushes the knife into the hollow of Dick's throat in a straight line, damn near taking his head off. Then she backs up, regrouping as the thing lunges for her with its eyes and chest covered in blood spatter.

               Injury doesn't seem to slow him down, either, but as Sam watches from a distance of several yards, he notices that the thing isn't walking easily. Ellen's attack is doing something; it just isn't enough. Not yet.

               Ellen drops and rolls out of reach as two clawlike arms move to squeeze her in their grip. She buries her slicked knife into the creature's chest, but he doesn't even scream. There's a sound like a low grunt, and then Dick Roman's hands wrap around Ellen's knife and push it completely through his own chest, embedding it so deep that there's no easy way to retrieve it. Ellen pulls back her hand and backhands him firmly across the jaw, and the snap of the blow makes Sam think of broken bones.

               Then John Winchester moves, cocking the gun in his hand and firing straight through Dick Roman's head.

               The bullet lodges in the bones of Dick's skull, still visible. Spellwork etched on the outside of the metal reshapes and melts, sending blue-white light like electric shock through all of Dick's muscles. He drops to his knees, breathing raggedly, and fixes an intense, blood-laden stare on Ellen.

               “I could’ve saved your daughter, you know,” the thing says out of a broken mouth. It sounds like Dick Roman—more like him than the creature's cruel mockery. “I had the horse. If she’d have gotten it instead, she’d still be alive.”

               Ellen spits. “Don’t talk to me about my daughter.”

               Blood trickles from the creature’s smiling lips. "Fuck Lucifer and his stupid gun." He grins up at Ellen, teeth red-stained and shiny. "Nothing else can kill me. And—" He pauses, gasping. "Nothing else can kill him, either." He laughs again, semi-hysterical, for interminable seconds; then his spine goes rigid and he collapses to the ground.

               His eyes go wide, and he is still.

               Sam wonders what that thing was—and what Lucifer did to gain its allegiance. Asking now would feel wrong, though. Ellen—brave, incredible Ellen—deserves consideration, and silence.

               “Well,” Ellen drawls after a long moment, “good riddance to bad rubbish.”

               “Hear, hear,” Bobby says, though his heart’s not in it. Like Sam, he’s grieving the loss of Dick Roman to a monster they hadn’t known how to save him from.

               No wonder Dean had given up hunting.

               “Can you walk?” Ellen asks Sam. He nods. “Good. We’re going after your brother. If there are more like this lot ahead, he’ll need all the help he can get.” She pulls a clean rag out of her bag, and starts wiping the blood from her hands. When she's reasonably clean, she helps him stand.

               After a few moments, Sam finds his balance again. He breathes shallowly, cold air smarting his lungs. He catches John's eye and asks, "Was he right?"

               "What?"

               "That thing—whatever it was. Did we just waste our shot?"

               Technically, it's John that wasted the shot, but Sam knows he would have done the same thing if the gun had been in his hands. And he knows that if he starts blaming his father now, he won't stop until they're full-on fighting, which is definitely not what he wants right now.

               John shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe. Maybe not."

               "What does that mean?"

               Though the question is addressed to John, Bobby answers. "It means we need to trust my spellwork," Bobby says. "And hope that we made the bullets out of the right metal."

               Sam's familiar with that kind of detail-oriented work; he knows how many things might go wrong in manufacturing a bullet that can kill demons. But trusting Bobby is easy and natural, and they have nothing else to hope for.

               "Right," Sam says. He doles out six hex bags each from his pack for Ellen, John, Bobby and Garth, keeping the remainder for himself. "These can burn through the hedge, but we have to be quick."

               Ellen nods sharply. There's still blood in her hair. "Let's go."


	37. Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that delay...I found a job, started it, and it completely wiped me out, but I am back with a chapter and the one after this is half-written, so hopefully the updates will keep coming on the regular.
> 
> In this chapter, there is violence (so much violence!), blood, and a brief incident that could be read as sexual assault. (Again, baddies will be baddies.)

Leaving Sam on the other side of the gate is the hardest thing Dean's ever done. And he counts saving the kid from the forest fire in there, and leaving him the first time, too.

Seeing Sam hurt had been what decided him. A flash of fear had made him want to turn around, go back, put himself between Sam and the threat, but the thing is, the _real_ threat is Lucifer.

Sam can handle Ruby. Hell, maybe it's poetic justice and Sam _should_ handle Ruby.

Lucifer is Dean's to deal with.

The enveloping darkness as he glides through the air feels like blindness, helplessness, and he reminds himself that the horse, at least, has done this before. As he lands with a muffled thump on the other side of the gate, the horse bucks him off; he slides and lands easily, hearing the horse's hooves connect with something solid—and crunchy.

"Fuck!" Crowley's shriek, high-pitched as a woman's, shatters the quiet. Dean focuses on the noise and sees that the horse had managed to land almost directly on Crowley. The subsequent hit had landed on one side of his body: from the angle of his left arm, Dean would say it's broken, and the other front hoof had made a mess of his right shoulder.

Impact makes Crowley drop, and Dean follows him, knife finding the big vein in his throat. "Jesus," Dean says as he looks between Crowley's mangled, bloody face and the horse's eyes. "What'd he ever do to you?"

The horse snorts and stamps one hoof. Dean tracks where it's looking, tracing the shadow that's cutting through the reflection of the full moon overhead.

It's winter solstice—the longest night of the year. But the moon illumines an open space near the house, flat and even, winter grass turning white in the brilliant light. A man stands in the center of the space, shoulders relaxed, and it is his shadow that crosses over Crowley and Dean, cutting the light.

It's an ethereal, almost magical sight, and Dean is stunned for a second as he takes it in. Apparently Lucifer hadn't taken over Castiel again. The spelled amulet must have held.

Then Cas looks toward him, mouth stretching from ear to ear in a way that’s not a smile, and there's something black liked dried blood marking the side of his face, and Dean knows he’s wrong.

Crowley uses that moment of realization to move, kicking Dean's legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The horse screams, rears, attempts to come down on Crowley again, but Crowley's ready this time and dodges.

One hoof retracts fast close to Dean and clips his temple where he's fallen, and it's his turn to curse. "Shit," he mutters, hand coming up to his head. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

“Crowley,” the demon says in clipped tones, “I told you to keep them out.”

“Sorry, this one’s persistent,” Crowley says, rolling away from Dean. He attempts to regain his feet and fails; blood marks his front everywhere, and Dean’s shocked he’s still alive.

“Damn straight,” Dean mutters. He stands and approaches Ca--the demon, feeling naked even with the knife in his hand, because he knows it won’t be enough.

That doesn’t matter. This is his responsibility. All of it.

“Let him go,” Dean says.

Lucifer laughs, hard, hugging himself a little in delight. “Okay, this one’s fun. Crowley?”

“Mrgh?”

“I forgive you.”

“Uh, thanks,” Crowley says, hand twitching upward in acknowledgement. Otherwise he doesn’t move.

Dean has too many enemies to think about, so he makes the executive decision to ignore Crowley. The horse will stop him if he tries to make a move. Maybe.

Dean grips the knife firmly in hand and lunges, swapping it to his left at the last second to make a slashing swipe across the demon’s chest.

Lucifer moves fast, but not fast enough; Dean feels the knife bite flesh before he jerks out of the way and down, barreling Dean in the chest with both arms so that they collapse together in the snow with the demon on top of him.

There’s a smear of new blood on Dean’s tunic where they’re pressed together, the tang of iron entering his lungs as he breathes. He tries to shove the demon off but it grabs him closer, pulling both his arms up and holding them still.

Dean attempts to twist out of the hold, hips rolling up and shoulders moving back, but the demon’s grip remains steady. There is a curious expression in its yellow-white unfocused eyes as it uses its leverage to hold him. It brushes the nose of its stolen body against his, and Dean understands what it’s trying to do a split second before it kisses him.

Using sudden desperation for added strength, Dean rolls, switching their positions. Despite the demon’s earlier hold, he had managed to hang haphazardly onto the knife; he prepares to stab the demon in the chest, but Lucifer catches his hand easily and turns the blade neatly backward, making him cut his own arm below the elbow. Dean hisses and pulls back a little, and Lucifer headbutts him to move him back, then stands to seize the higher ground.

He kicks Dean in the head before Dean can get up, and for a second Dean’s vision whites out. He’s bleeding--hand slick in the snow below him--and dizzy, and Lucifer had managed to steal the knife when he’d grabbed his hand.

Weaponless.

From behind him, Dean hears a female voice, low and mellifluous, singing or chanting something in Latin, and it reminds him of his mother for a brief, confused second. Then the cut on his left arm lights on fire around the edges, charring flesh to bone, and he screams but doesn’t pass out.

Witchcraft. Ruby McCloud must have arrived, though he doesn’t see her anywhere.

The demon is standing in front of him with the bloody knife in its hand, and Ruby is chanting a spell, somewhere he can’t see. He could make a grab for the knife, but with only one useful arm that’s unlikely to help him. Dean closes his eyes for a second and waits for the final blow.

It doesn’t come.

Dean keeps his eyes closed because he has the choice not to see himself fail, but impatience makes him spit, "Go ahead, do it.” He waits for a reply, but the only response is the end of Ruby’s chant.

Apparently the spell hadn’t been for him; he’s still alive.

Confusion restores his curiosity. His eyes open, and he fixes his shaky vision on the demon standing over him. His chest is still bleeding a little where Dean cut him; the edges of the cut are turning the same color as his warped eyes. "Say your little spell and kill me, if that's what you want."

"Want?" An eyebrow goes up, and Lucifer's rictus-like grin collapses at the corners. "This has never been about what I want. If it was, I wouldn't still be here. No." His gaze shifts behind Dean, and he sighs. "Even I entrust some tasks to others. Regrettable, but necessary."

Dean tracks the demon’s gaze and identifies Ruby in a dark dress and furs not too far away. She waves as she approaches, and Lucifer nods acknowledgement. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Lucifer holds the knife out, and Ruby accepts it reverently with both hands. “Do it.”

Then--to Dean’s surprise--the demon walks away, not looking at either him or Ruby.

Dean blinks. “He can’t kill me, can he?”

“Idiot,” Ruby hisses. “Of course he can. But the spell will work better if I do it.” She uses the tip of the knife to tilt his chin up. “Any last words?”

Dean thinks of every sarcastic or bravado-laden response in his vocabulary and comes up blank.

The demon hasn’t killed him. It seems likely that it can’t kill him. Something--never mind what--is preventing it.

And Dean’s more than a match for Ruby.

Dean ducks out of the way of the knife, using his good arm to twist Ruby around and take the weapon from her. He nearly succeeds; she drops the knife, but he can’t manage to grip it before it falls to the snow.

Dean scrabbles for the knife as Ruby selects a hex bag from a chain around her neck, and Ruby is faster. Dean finds himself suddenly paralyzed--awake, aware, but unable to move a single muscle.

“I really need a stronger word than ‘idiot,’” Ruby mutters, yanking Dean up by the hair and digging the knife into the soft flesh over his collarbone.

Then the horse appears behind Ruby without warning, hooves coming down on her shoulders as it rears up and back, away from Dean. Somehow, the horse manages not to land on him, and with Ruby down, her fingers leave the hex bag. Dean can move.

It takes him all of three seconds to realize this, but the time seems slowed down, as if he’s processing everything at half-speed. As soon as he understands Ruby is down, he snatches his knife back and retreats several steps, scrabbling backward, bare palms smarting against the frigid ground.

The horse follows him, hooves whisper-silent, and he looks up to thank it--again--and his jaw drops.

The horse...has a rider.

A rider that looks exactly like him.

Dean's hands instinctively go to his chest, verifying that he's not dead and looking at his own ghost, somehow, and his doppelganger smiles. "The girl’s right," he says, and damn if his voice isn't like Dean's, too. "You really are worse than an idiot."

He spares one more look at Dean, then directs the horse toward the clearing where Lucifer is standing, calm and implacable as he’d been at the beginning of their fight. "Can you kill that?" he asks.

"That's the plan."

The ghost shakes his head. "Not an answer. I need to know."

So much for a family reunion. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I'm at the limit of what I can do. Can I trust you to save him?"

Dean looks at him again, really looks, and the ghost doesn't—can't?—meet his eyes. Damn. He never knew guilt complexes were inherited. "Yeah," Dean says. "I'll save him." Or die trying. It’s not like he has other options at this point, anyway.

The ghost lets out a sound like exhalation, breath, and when Dean blinks up at him, he's gone.

The horse remains. Dean approaches it carefully, slowly, but he hasn't taken two steps before it bolts into the woods, toward the line of the hedges: swallowed by the dark.

Huh. He'll wonder exactly how long his father was possessing that horse—later.

Now, he's got a promise to keep.

Behind him, the sound of shushing snow and a low groan tell him that Ruby is rousing; he doesn’t have much time.

He kicks her firmly in the chin as he passes, hoping the force will keep her knocked out long enough for him to kill the demon. He lacks the time to kill her and check that she’s actually dead, and again, she’s not the real threat, here. He stoops to pick up the chain of hex bags around her neck and throw it as hard as he can into the trees. Then he approaches the demon.

Lucifer regards him with an expression like disdain. He sighs. “Never send a girl to do a man’s job.”

“That’s just sexist.”

The stretched smile he gets in return makes something in his gut tense up. “Now what, Dean?” Lucifer asks. “You’re going to kill me with that little knife?”

“Why? You got something better I can kill you with?”

The smile he gets in return is feral and bright. He turns away--actually puts his back to Dean--and looks up at the moon, curious, unconcerned.

And really, that should have clued Dean in that this was a trap, but he’s lost a fair amount of blood and Sam’s not exactly here to second-guess his decisions--so he walks right into it.

His left leg seizes up, immobile, and his body pitches forward. He takes a header into the snow at Lucifer’s feet, blacking out for a second; his palms move out to brace his fall, but as soon as they land, they’re as stuck as his leg: as stuck as if he’d been encased in ice.

“You know,” Lucifer says mildly, “I got this idea from those ridiculous Devil’s traps you hunters use on us. A hunter’s trap. Do you like it?”

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. He twitches his right leg, but doesn’t land it--it can still move. He’s not helpless yet.

Using both hips for torque, he vaults his leg into Lucifer’s ankles. The demon stumbles, hands moving down to grab his leg and twist. He feels his knee pop; the demon keeps twisting it. Dean attempts to move his body with it, but his paralyzed limbs won’t obey him.

Lucifer is going to rip his leg off.

What Dean wouldn’t give for a nice, clean death right now...

“Hey, asshole,” a woman calls behind him.

The demon takes a break from twisting, but doesn’t let go. His hands twitch on Dean’s leg as he asks, “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, no,” the woman says. “You’re gonna let him go.”

“That sounds like an order.”

Dean doesn’t have to look to see the smile: it’s in the demon’s voice. The woman’s voice is familiar, but impossible. He turns his head and catches a glimpse of white-blond hair out of the corner of his eye.

Jo’s eyes catch the moon and burnish silver. “You can’t do shit without me,” she says, looking down at him and folding her arms across her chest.

She flickers and vanishes, appearing behind Lucifer; Dean feels a flash of cold when she moves through him, thin and sharp like a knife between the ribs. Lucifer is distracted enough that he lets go of Dean’s leg completely. It lands in the circle with his other limbs, immobilized as soon as it hits the ground.

Damn it.

Jo doesn’t attack the demon. Instead, she crouches and rolls into the circle, crawling directly in front of Dean. Her hands pass over the ground near his head, and he sees symbols shining white, invisible to human eyes but not, apparently, to ghost ones.

Lucifer looms behind her, one hand outstretched to grab her by the hair and yank her out of the circle. Before she’s flung away, she puts both hands over one of the symbols on the ground, muttering, “This looks important.”

Then she’s gone, tossed out of the circle, but Dean doesn’t see her land. She must have vanished again. When he turns his head to look for her, his shoulder lifts, along with part of his arm. He tests his other arm--not by moving it, but by testing the muscles. They tense and flex normally. Two simultaneous tests of his feet confirm he’s got his legs back, too.

Who knew having spirits for allies--instead of enemies--would be like this?

Jo appears outside the circle again, and this time Lucifer is ready: he catches her and holds, and she wriggles, the edges of her shape blurring, but she doesn’t break free.

“Jo!” Dean calls, but he doesn’t stand. Somehow, he retains enough presence of mind to know that she’d bought this advantage for him--Lucifer doesn’t know he can move. He doesn’t want to waste that.

Even if it means he fails to save her. Again.

Jo screams, something earthy and raw that doesn’t sound like her voice. She winks out of Lucifer’s hold, scream abruptly cut off as if she’d been erased from existence.

The demon approaches Dean at a leisurely pace, nudging his face up with one blue foot. Dean hadn’t noticed it before, but the demon isn’t wearing shoes. “Any last words?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Eat shit and die.”

Lucifer chuckles.

Fast--almost faster than he can see--Dean slashes the knife, still in his hand, at the tendons of Lucifer’s right foot. He’s on his own feet in another second, backing up, getting out of range.

Lucifer’s laughter stops abruptly, and he frowns down at his hobbled leg with a too-familiar expression of familiarity and concern. And really, it’s not like Dean’s never had to kill monsters with his friends’ faces before, but--it doesn’t get easier. Not really.

Lucifer snaps, a loud sound in the stillness, and Dean’s hands shake uncontrollably as if he’s having a seizure. The knife drops, and the trembling spreads, making him fall to his knees.

Lucifer tilts his head up again. “Well played, human. I knew I kept you alive for some reason.”

Dean wants to close his eyes, but something like fear--or maybe hope?--keeps them open. Lucifer stoops to retrieve the knife, then grips Dean by the throat to hold him still. Dean has not stopped shaking; he can’t, and Lucifer needs him to stay still if he wants to kill him this way.

As Dean shakes uncontrollably, the knife pauses half an inch from his throat.

“What are you waiting for?” Dean spits.

Lucifer lets go of his neck. Dean struggles to regain his feet, but his legs quiver as badly as the rest of him, and he falls again, half-catching himself and just managing not to faceplant in the snow. Lucifer is retreating backward, followed by a fiery pillar that looks to Dean like destructive magic.

Then he focuses, and he realizes the fire has limbs--clearly delineated arms, legs, a head. It’s as tall as the demon, maybe taller, and it’s following Lucifer by just...walking.

Spirit. Has to be. Maybe one of the people that died in the forest fire.

Lucifer sneers at the spirit as he backs away from Dean. “The solstices and the equinoxes always bring out the crazy ones,” he says with a little sigh.

That’s true. Witchcraft always ticks up in and around Lawrence at the change of seasons--though it’s usually hedge witches and folks like Bobby and Ellen that partake of the increased spiritual energy in the air. Demonic witches know to stay well clear of Lawrence.

Dean looks up at Lucifer with a little frown. Well, most of them know, anyway.

He blinks uncontrollably, the shaking of his body spreading to the tiny muscles of his eyes; he can’t see. He feels fire near his face of a sudden and pulls back, but the fire follows him.

The spirit.

“You will get away from this house,” the spirit said in a voice like steel, “and let go of my son.”

Her _son?_

_Mom?_

God damn it, Dean can’t _see._

He can hear, though. Lucifer’s laughing again, loud, from his chest, and Dean hears a sound like a snap of bone, faint under the crackling sound of the spirit on fire. The spirit--maybe--of his mother.

Dean scrabbles on the ground, searching for the spirit, the knife, a stick to defend himself with, anything--

Mary screams--like Jo; like Dean would if his physical pain would focus enough to let him scream--and Dean reaches out one unsteady hand, searching for the fire. Hang burns; his mom needs him.

She’s trying to save him. Jo had tried to save him. Hell, Sam had taken a bolt that may have been meant for him. Even Michael had gotten Crowley off his ass.

What had he done, to deserve such sacrifices?

Abruptly, Dean stops shaking. Like a string pulling taut, all his muscles stop moving, and for a second he thinks he’s paralyzed again. He gets his hands under him and gets up on one knee, searching the dark for his mother.

She’s not there.

Lucifer has fallen to a mirror image of Dean’s pose: hands buried in snow, one knee under him, as if he’s been hurt badly.

_Good for you, mom,_ Dean thinks. _Good for you._ Then he notices that there’s something off about Lucifer’s posture. His shoulders have collapsed in, and his chin is tucked as if he doesn’t want to look at anything--as if he can’t or doesn’t want to see.

“That’s _enough,_ ” Castiel says. And it is Castiel: the voice is his. Lucifer has never been very good at imitating it. “Stop. _Enough_.”

Sense memory and long experience identify him as the good one, and Dean’s panic folds into his chest. He lurches forward, putting himself inches away from Castiel, and says, “Stay with me.”

“Dean?” his head stays down. He nods to himself, breathes, and says, “Give me your knife.”

“No.”

“Then run me through.”

His words are muffled by his shirt, but Dean hears them. He sighs and pushes himself up onto both knees.

Before he can do anything else, he hears again the faint but unmistakable crackle of fire.

His shoulders twitch toward the sound, legs tensing, but getting up would take a miracle right now. All he can do is watch as three shadows appear in front of the swath of flames guarding the gate: human in shape, but elongated grotesquely by the light behind them, like spirits twisted by hellfire.

He can’t identify them at this distance, and he doesn’t know how many reinforcements Crowley had brought--

Then Sam calls, “Dean!” and the air is so clear and crisp with cold that it carries. All the strength goes out of Dean in a breath as the ideas of safety and allies take hold. His hands go out to steady himself as he falls back to the ground, the remains of his shirt soaking in the snow. He’s saved.

If Cas is still alive, they’re both saved. It’s so impossible he’s half-convinced he’s dreaming--but even his worst nightmares usually leave his ribs feeling a little less shredded.

“Cas,” Dean says in a metal-rasp voice, rusted at the edges. He twists to look behind him again--but he’s not there. With the help of the moon’s brilliant light, his eyes track a clear black line of footprints and blood.

There’s no way a human would be able to move so far so fast--not injured as badly as Cas had been. Lucifer must have taken over again. The demon’s running away--then Sam reaches him and flips him over.

 Dean uses the last of his concentration to point in the direction of Lucifer's flight. Without a second of hesitation, another figure behind Sam aims where Dean points and fires.

The gunshot is extraordinarily loud in the stillness of the cold night; Dean thinks it must have shattered something.

Just before he passes out, he watches John Winchester start reloading the gun in his hands.

_Dad. Sam._

Darkness.


	38. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for persistent suicidal ideation and character deaths, though I doubt the identity of the characters will surprise anyone.
> 
> We're winding up soon, folks. Though I'm a bit disappointed that the story turned to more violence/adventure/angst before I could have more fun at Mike Pence's expense. (It's petty, but that's the main reason I put any sex in this at all.) There are a few plot bunnies that never quite turned into sex scenes for this story that I may append to the main fic. (I'm not usually petty, except about civil rights liberties. :P)

 

When Castiel snaps back to consciousness in his own body, he immediately wishes for something to put him out of his misery. Cyanide. Bullets. A knife for his wrists. His entire existence is pain-bright; he sees stars and snow and faces and is unable to identify any of it through the horrible haze.

Mary’s voice reaches him, cutting through the bones of his skull with surgical precision.

“Find a way to save yourself.”

It’s an echo: something from the past, yet it’s also vivid and immediate. “There’s no way,” he tries to say, but all that comes out is a harsh breath. Lucifer still holds sway over him; he can’t speak for himself.

“I promised I would help you,” Mary says, disembodied; he can’t see her. How is she here? He'd burned that portrait of her to appease Lucifer. What else could she attach to?

The amulet. It has a piece of Michael’s soul in it.

No, that’s wrong; only Michael’s spirit would be able to attach to that. Which just leaves--Dean. She’d told him as much, after his and Dean’s first fight. She’s attached to him, somehow.

Fire flickers along the edges of his eyes as if they’ve been ringed in flames. “Let me help you,” Mary insists.

He doesn’t know how.

Apparently, not resisting is enough. His vision is consumed by flame--pain-blindness returns for interminable moments that make him long for suicide--but then it eases and he can see. The imprint of a night sky and bright snow under a too-big moon recedes when he blinks, as he realizes he is facing—again—a bloody and unmoving Dean. Dean's eyes are open, tracking him as he wrestles his body under control.

Dean's not dead, and he's in control. Mary might have just saved them both.

Lucifer's howling scream reaches him as if from the bottom of an abyss: persistent, present, but still some distance away. To Lucifer's roiling anger, Castiel snaps, "That’s _enough._ " More than enough. "Stop. Enough.”

The screaming inside his mind gets louder, and Castiel presses palms to his forehead as if fighting off a migraine. There's a low shushing sound like footprints through snow, and Castiel realizes that Dean is getting closer, for some reason.

"Run," he wants to say, but he needs to save his words and his strength for Lucifer.

Then Dean's close enough to look him directly in the eye, so close Castiel can feel his breath misting against his cut-open neck and chest. “Stay with me,” he says.

Part of Castiel wants to. Another part is proud of Dean for having damaged Lucifer so effectively. If he'd cut much deeper—or hit the right vein—Castiel would be dead.

But since he's not, he'll have to ask.

“Dean?” he asks, jerking his head down, avoiding looking at him. It seems clear he's here to save Lawrence and his family from Lucifer, and Castiel doesn't need any reasons to help him. He'd given up on reasons to live after Lucifer had taken over again—but he still has plenty of good reasons to die. He nods to reassure himself that all of this will soon be over, and gasps, “Give me your knife.”

“No.”

Castiel allows his eyes to flick up, catch Dean's and hold. “Then run me through.”

His mouth is half-caught on a ripped piece of fabric sticking to his skin, making him sound quieter than he likes; the sticky sensation makes him feel mummified: already dead in every way that matters. In a detached way, notices Dean approaching him on hands and knees, perhaps preparing to give him what he wants.

But wait, hadn't he said no? And shouldn't Castiel protest that?

Between two heartbeats, he loses control of his legs and staggers up, away, pulled upright by compulsions that don't yet reach his conscious mind but are getting there. His skin is on fire, with infection fever or possession; he can't tell which, but he knows that Lucifer will have him back soon. His best hope is that Dean is intact enough to chase him down and kill him before Lucifer starts fighting back.

Each bloody step forward erodes that hope—until he hears the crack of gunfire nearby. Too near; so close—

He's hit. The bullet goes through the muscle of his calf and lodges there, spreading blue current like ice under his skin. He has another brief, pain-bright moment before Lucifer's control over his body renders the hurt inert. He shuffles forward like a zombie lacking in will, into the relative shelter of the trees.

Castiel's concentration improves as he moves; though he starts out bushwhacking, he realizes that he's moving toward a clearer space. Branches catch and at his face; one scratches an eyelid hard enough for him to react to it, but then the going is easier. There's no underbrush and less snow after, and he sees the thorn hedge in front of him, looming and dark.

He lumbers directly into the hedge before he realizes it's not on fire.

Then he starts to laugh, semi-hysterical, limited in volume only by the weakness of his body. He can't tell if it's him or Lucifer feeding the laughter. It could easily be both of them; Castiel can't pinpoint the exact moment when he'd gone insane. He understands that whatever Lucifer had just done with Ruby and Dean, the result is that he's freed himself.

Lucifer pushes their mangled limbs into the hedge and, predictably, gets caught. Twenty years of magical growth without pruning had made the thorns a formidable barrier in themselves, fire or not, and after a few minutes of useless struggling Lucifer turns tail and extricates them.

For the first time since Mary had helped him, Castiel hears the voice of Lucifer in his mind, coiled and spitting and a snake: _Should have had that bitch bring hedge clippers._

Castiel almost laughs again. He tries a few movements—twitching his arm, keeping one leg still—and is moderately successful, to the point where Lucifer snaps at him, _Stop it. I have no time for you right now._

Castiel is offended. "Still my body," he manages sluggishly, the words lacking definition as he speaks through a cold-swollen mouth. There's blood in his teeth; he wonders when that had happened.

_Not for much longer._

Lucifer pitches them forward with an awkward gait, moving along the horizontal line of the hedge where the way is clear of debris and, mostly, of thorns.  The iron gate appears in the middle distance, shining white with snow and starlight, and Lucifer makes a beeline for it, choosing a pace that twists one of Castiel's injured ankles so hard that it breaks.

Castiel staggers, but Lucifer doesn't let them stop.

Castiel decides it's time to actually struggle. If Lucifer ditches him now, here, he'll die inside half an hour; injury and exposure will do him in easily. And if he fights and slows Lucifer down, the people who'd rescued Dean might have time to catch up, and kill him. Either way, Castiel wins; he won't have to be on hand to witness Lucifer's crimes anymore.

Struggling proves useless. He approaches the gate, all but dragged by Lucifer, and as they reach out to touch it, Castiel has a feeling like weightless suspension, as if he's been separated from his own body like a spirit. For a moment he thinks he's dead, but the thought makes his arm twitch hard, so that's not it. He retains partial control—Lucifer is just carving out some distance.

He has had this experience before, the night of the fire, when Lucifer had forced him out to witness the wild and rampant destruction of the fire Crowley and his men had set. The vast swath of forest smoldering beneath him had looked like Armageddon and hellfire, and Castiel sincerely hopes that history is not about to repeat itself.

When Lucifer touches the iron of the gate, the bullet still lodged in Castiel's leg sends streams of current through all four limbs; from above, Castiel watches himself shake like a rag doll. Then the distance between himself and his body closes without warning as Castiel views and feels and senses everything through Lucifer again, for a split second, before everything goes black.

 

***

 

When he comes to, he knows immediately that he is no longer in the location he'd fallen at. His eyes open to a flat clear space—well away from the hedge, then—and there are people talking.

Familiar people.

"Where'd you find him?" Dean asks.

"In the woods. Left a trail of blood for a while, then footprints," a woman answers, but Castiel forgets to listen for a few seconds because Dean is alive. Or maybe Castiel's dead and this is Heaven.

Or Hell.

The woman continues speaking, oblivious to his confusion; she doesn't seem to realize he's awake. "Wasn't hard to catch, but I don't know what he was up to—what he wanted to accomplish. As soon as I caught up with him, he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut."

Castiel gropes in the corners of his own mind, looking for all the places Lucifer could be coiled, hiding and waiting. Just because he doesn't feel Lucifer right now doesn't mean he's not there. He tries to sit up and nearly succeeds; Dean and the woman he's talking to both reach for a shoulder simultaneously and hold him down.

"Hey," another man who is not Dean says. "You really shouldn't move. You took quite a hit."

Castiel squints at the speaker, identifying a man with too-long limbs and too-long hair a similar color to Dean's. He realizes that he's seen him before, in the world of the trapdoor in Lucifer's room. "Sam."

Sam inclines his head and adds a log to a partially built fire. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"Hilarious," Dean says, unimpressed. "You got that surgery stuff ready, Ellen?"

"Almost," the woman says. When Castiel looks at her, he gets the nagging suspicion that she should be familiar, too, but he can't immediately identify from where.

Next to him on a piece of burlap cloth, Ellen lays out some wicked-looking metal implements that Castiel doesn't know the purpose of. "What's all that for?"

Ellen shrugs. "Some of these," she says, picking up a large needle, "are for the puncture wounds. Others," she says, reaching for a pair of metal tongs that look like they came from a blacksmith's forge, "are for foreign objects lodged inside."

Castiel gives her a confused look.

"Bullet," Sam clarifies. "Dad shot you. The bullet's still in the wound."

And Castiel is still alive.

He is self-aware enough to be disappointed. 

Ellen moves the tongs to the hole in his leg, and he gasps, "No, leave it in." It had reacted to the iron in the gate; it might have temporarily kicked Lucifer out of his body. He still can't feel him. "Leave it." He breathes harshly. "You have to let me die."

A tic jumps on the side of Dean's face. He smooths it with one hands and says, firm and inflexible, "No."

"You have to. He's coming back. He has no choice. And he'll be angry, and you're still hurt." Castiel's good arm twitches toward his own injuries. They won't be enough to slow Lucifer down much. "I'll stay still. Killing me kills him, too. It's the right thing to do."

Dean lets out a long breath and shakes his head. "No," he says again. "There's got to be a better answer. We'll find it."

Ellen chooses this moment to stick the metal tongs into the heat of the fire, holding them there until they take on a red-gold hue of heat at the edges. Castiel watches as she pushes the tongs, precise and piercing, into his chunk of missing leg.

He hisses but doesn't cry out. He's been traveling all this time without shoes, and his legs are fairly numb to the knee. He takes in his purpling toes by the light of the fire and considers that he might lose them, even if he survives.

A life half-crippled doesn't seem like a better answer than death to him.

While Ellen fishes for the bullet, Sam holds his leg still, hands like steel clamps. A few moments pass before Ellen makes a low sound of discovery like a grunt and pulls the flattened bullet out in bloodied tongs. She tosses the bullet to the fire, then buries the tongs in the snow for cleaning. Sam bandages the leg rapidly, though the sluggish cold seems to be affecting his blood as well; he doesn't seem to bleed much.

Maybe he's already lost too much blood through the vein in his neck, and there's not much left to lose.

He takes it as a somewhat negative sign that he keeps wishing himself to drop dead at any moment. The alternatives, though, are worse. He's alone in his own mind for now, but Lucifer could easily appear at any time, and healing Castiel's injuries only serves to help the demon.

A stick snaps in the woods behind him, and Castiel shifts to look along with everyone else. The shadow of a man is visible through the trees, lengthening as it gets closer.

"Well, well, well," Crowley says out of the dark. "Long time, no see."

But it isn't Crowley. Castiel doesn't need to look to know that the man's been possessed by Lucifer. He can sense it on him, a pervading sensation of wrongness like skinworms eating him alive. Crowley's shoulders are a mangled mess of blood and bone; his face is red-slicked and shiny, and there is a matching bloodthirsty gleam in his dead black eyes.

So Lucifer had jumped ship, after all.

The thought warms something in Castiel. Maybe he doesn't need to die—yet. Or maybe he can have his death mean something; use it to save these people who are helping him.

 Castiel struggles to get up, flee somehow so that Lucifer can follow, but Ellen and Sam hold him down while Dean confronts the demon.

"Nice look," Dean says, gesturing to Crowley's corpse. "New?"

Lucifer spits, and the projectile hits Castiel on the forehead. "I'm here to collect my property," Lucifer says, "if you’d be so kind."

Aha. Perhaps Castiel's guess about the gate had been correct. The bullet had clearly interacted with something in the iron and spellwork at the gate. Perhaps he should have struggled harder when Ellen had removed it, but it's not like he's thinking very clearly right now.

Blood loss. Exhaustion. Hypothermia.

Why isn't he dead?

No; that's the wrong question. Instead, he needs to focus on keeping everyone else alive. Pitching his voice to carry, he says, "Promise not to hurt them."

Lucifer grins, and the expression on Crowley's face is grotesque almost to the point of humor, like watching a bear try to imitate a human smile. "Oh, Cassie, I can't make promises without knowing what I'll get in return. You should know that."

Castiel nods firmly. The chill of the night pervades all of his muscles; he is utterly cold and numb and should have died hours ago. No, not hours. Years. Decades. Letting Lucifer have him will give Dean and Sam and the other people they're with enough time to run—get away. Maybe. "You know what I'm offering."

Castiel had been Lucifer's vessel for a long time. He can be that a little longer.

Lucifer regards him thoughtfully for a moment, twisting Crowley's neck at an unnatural angle. After a few moments, he nods.

Then a hole the size of a fist appears in the middle of his chest, accompanied by the loudest percussive gunshot Castiel has ever heard. He sees the face of an old man with a short beard leering through the hole, teeth glowing white. A wolf-man—werewolf?—springs forward to attack Crowley from behind the man, and Crowley goes down, clearly a corpse; Lucifer must have fled again.

"Fast bastard," Bobby mutters. Behind him, he calls, "Buckshot bullets didn't work."

Another man huffs and comes up. "Did we even think they would?"

"Worth a—"

"—if you say 'shot,' I will punch you in the fucking nose."

Castiel manages to sit up a bit more despite Sam and Ellen's grip on him, and when he peers forward to get a better look at the second man, he recognizes John Winchester. He squints at the man with the beard, mentally calculates the years from his face, and gasps. "Mr. Singer?"

The man with the beard freezes and looks at him with eyes rimed red by cold. "Shit, son," Mr. Singer says, "you ain't aged a day."

Castiel sighs. "If only that were true."

Sam looks back and forth between Castiel and Bobby. "Wait? You two know each other?"

Castiel shakes his head. "That—was a long time ago."

Bobby nods, a little sadly, then calls to the werewolf that is still feasting on Crowley's gutted body. The werewolf's ears go back sharply, and it trots to Mr. Singer's side like a pet.

Castiel blinks, but says nothing. He remembers Mr. Singer as a dabbler in the occult—something like himself, only much more hands-on with monsters. Apparently the intervening years have made him more than a dabbler—much more.

Sam snorts. "I can't believe someone who knows you would call you Mr. Singer."

"That's right," Castiel says after a moment. "You prefer Bobby now, right?"

Mr. Singer gives him a long look. "Not from you, no."

Castiel is unsure of how to react to this statement, but he knows that referring to Mr. Singer so casually when they'd been scarcely more than acquaintances decades ago would trouble him, too. "Mr. Singer," he says carefully. "Thanks."

Bobby inclines his head. "And hell," he says, turning back to John, "at least we know one more thing that _doesn't_ work."

John Winchester's shoulders hunch; he looks like he wants to punch someone. He holds himself still, then bends over his weapon—some kind of blunderbuss that fires lots of shot at once; hence the state of Crowley's chest—to reload in silence.

Mr. Singer gives Castiel a once-over; he notices his attention lingering on his purpling ankle and blue feet. He looks Bobby in the eyes. They both know there's no going back to Lawrence for Castiel. Even if he lives, he'll never walk on his own again.

This idea calms him. He offers Mr. Singer a slight nod, which is returned by an even slighter one, and a huff of breath.

They understand one another.

 

***

 

It turns out that Mr. Singer and Sam had been hurt along with Dean and Castiel, so the two remaining hunters make an executive decision to stay put and perform triage. For Sam and Mr. Singer, this is easy: Mr. Singer's wound had already been dressed—though he wouldn't be shooting with his right hand for a while. And Sam had already used minor witchcraft on the worst of his own injuries; if Castiel concentrates, he can see the edges of the gash on Sam's head puckering and coming together of their own accord, far faster than if he'd been healing naturally.

Dean and Castiel are another matter. Lucifer had broken several of Dean's bones, and parts of his abdomen are cut to ribbons. Though he'd swaggered bravely enough when confronted by Crowley, he'd collapsed shortly afterward; over the next hour or so, he slips in and out of consciousness several times. By unspoken agreement, Ellen and Sam focus on taking care of Dean first, leaving Castiel to slowly lose feeling in all his digits. After the lancing pain of earlier, this sensation is actually quite pleasant, and he catches himself thinking that if death is just empty and cold, well—maybe it won't be so bad.

Then he remembers Hell, and shivers.

Because the hunters are so concerned with Dean, they do not notice when the chill turns to burning, but Castiel does. And he understands what that means.

Though Lucifer favors fire and destruction, his personal preference is for ice. A cold burn that stings and numbs. At first, Castiel convinces himself that the burning sensation in his feet is just the next stage of hypothermia, but when his legs move under him without his permission, he knows he's wrong.

Sam and Ellen both reach for him at the same time, then collapse suddenly, as if Lucifer has gone after their legs as well. Ellen struggles to her feet first, but by this time Castiel is dozens of yards away; almost far enough away that he can no longer see them. Lucifer's control of his body is inexpert, clumsy, but sufficient; Ellen's initial treatment of his legs allows him to move faster than he would have thought possible.

Castiel tries to struggle for control, but all he can do is slow Lucifer down by increments so small he finds them difficult to measure—and struggling exhausts what meager resources he has left. So he lets Lucifer lead them back to the hedge without much resistance, and when he sees Ruby McCloud ahead with two buckets of oil hanging from her arms, he is not surprised.

Ruby hands him one of her buckets with a grim nod, then pours a bit of hers over the lip of the bucket, onto the hedge. Looking behind her, he sees a long dark line of fuel cutting the snow, and he understands.

Lucifer wants another fire. It might be necessary to break Michael's spell. Magic often works like that: undoing an event might rely on recreating the original conditions of that event. And oil is accelerant. It would make the fire spread faster where it had been set—and in the exact locations Lucifer would need, at least initially.

Castiel is sure Lucifer would not care in the slightest if his fire spread beyond the oil lines and into Lawrence, or beyond. He's fairly sure Lucifer would burn down the world and everything in it to be free again, free forever, because part of Castiel feels the same way.

Freedom at any cost—

Clearly, Lucifer and the McClouds have been planning this for a long time. And their old enemies are gone now: Michael, Mary, and even Jo had been banished by Lucifer's rage. Only Castiel remains to oppose him--and Castiel is at death's door, so broken he doesn't even know what parts of him may be salvageable.

As Ruby vanishes into the night, trailing oil, Lucifer turns them around to pour more oil along the hedge's edge. The weak shuffling of his legs makes Castiel feel top heavy with rubber legs; even Lucifer is forced to slow down to rub at numb feet for a few moments.

When they look up, it's into the barrel of the Colt.

Castiel wishes he could close his eyes.

The bullet goes into his shoulder at point-blank range. Castiel wonders why the shooter—isn't that John?—hadn't chosen the head. Then he falls, faceup with arms spread in a parody of a snow angel as his shoulder bleeds out and more of that blue energy current twitches all his muscles to jelly and slag.

Castiel gapes up at the shooter. It's Dean, which explains the shoulder shot. He tries to speak, but Lucifer beats him to it: "I thought—there was one bullet."

Another figure—Ellen, the woman who'd treated Castiel's injuries—comes into direct view across from Dean. She shrugs and says, "We made more."

Dean blows on the barrel of the gun as it cools, steam spreading with his breath.


	39. Fire

Stunned by falling and pain, Castiel gasps up at Ellen with his eyes open. He smells smoke and coughs, "Fire."

She gives him a puzzled look, then grips his shoulders. "Fire? Where?"

He wants to tell her where Lucifer and Ruby had set the kindling; when they'd poured oil over their fuel and struck sparks to set the forest aflame. But he's injured and lightheaded and unfocused, so all he manages is, "Lucifer."

"Lucifer? Fire?" The voice that asks is unfamiliar; not Dean's or Ellen's.

 "Fire," he gasps again, and loses consciousness before he can manage more.

 

***

 

The sound of crackling wood and hissing wind pulls him slowly awake. He is aware of movement, activity, as if it is happening very far away from him even though he does not seem to be moving. He forces himself to blink, compel his disorientation into some kind of order, and in his desire for strength he reaches for Lucifer out of habit.

Lucifer is gone.

Not merely gone in the sense that Castiel can't feel his presence: gone as if he'd never been there. Castiel blinks at his half-frozen hands and sees a layer of new skin above the injuries Lucifer had inflicted during their struggle to escape. He twitches both legs, and while they're still numb the broken one has some feeling to it, like pins and needles goading his flesh.

 No Lucifer. He's healing. It's like the spell is going in reverse—which was exactly what Lucifer had wanted, when he'd been around.

He might still be around, but Castiel doubts it. There hadn't been time between the shot and the bullet entering their body for Lucifer to escape to another host.

Blinking again, he feels something heavy land on his eyelid; he reaches up to push ash off of his face. Looking up, he sees oaks and maples and birches on fire: black limbs wreathed in red-white flame.

As per Lucifer's plan, Ruby had lit the entire forest on fire.

"Cas? Cas!"

Dean's calling him. He should sit up.

Easier said than done. Rising causes smoke to catch in his chest; he coughs and calls, "Dean?"

Dean finds him, moving like a wraith or a spirit in the obscuring cloud of smoke. "Can you move?"

Castiel snorts, looks down at his broken ankle and still-bleeding torso, and shakes his head. Healing or not, the process is slow, and he understands why he'd been left where he fell. "Leave me. Get out of here."

"Not happening," says a voice that is not Dean's. "I can carry him, Dean. Get to Bobby and Ellen. We have to move."

"I'm not leaving you," Dean snaps.

 "I'm not giving you a choice."

The shadow of Sam looms large for a moment before the big man lifts Castiel bodily over his shoulders, hoisting his legs against his waist so that he's essentially giving Castiel a piggyback ride. Before Dean can say anything, Sam's sprinting through the burning trees, flames passing inches from Castiel's face as they move.

The thin new growth that had sprung up since the last forest fire disintegrates like shriveled paper. Heat makes Castiel sweat everywhere, so that he can't tell if he's wandering in a fever or not. As Sam ducks and weaves their way through the trees, the undergrowth and canopy become thicker, wider, and it looks like Castiel remembers it should.

Like the last fire.

The fire that had killed Michael and Mary and left Sam and Dean orphans in all but name. The fire that had consumed Castiel's free will.

For a few seconds he is back there, as he was then, horrified at the burns on his arms and how badly he'd been bleeding before his limbs had turned dark and feathered and impervious. The feeling of bones shattering and reshaping; the movement of the flames along their appointed track.

He'd first noticed the path of fire outside the house, that night, before—well, _before._ When he'd still been himself. He'd been inside the house, trying to give Michael and Mary time to escape with Mr. Singer back to Lawrence.

Seeing it again through the lens of memory, Castiel watches as Crowley breaks through the main doors by brute force, shattering the doorframe and cracking the house's façade. Castiel stands there, facing him again, hopeless at fighting but determined to do _something_. Unfortunately, Crowley knows just how inept he is at any kind of combat and attacks his head, sending him down with his arms crossed up to block blows.

Light dances before his eyes, but he doesn't pass out. Crowley's destruction of the door had left a clear path outside, to the rain, away from fire. Castiel shoves Crowley's legs to unbalance him, crawls between them and sprints outside, his daughter and another man—maybe a demon?—in hot pursuit.

Combat practice had been forbidden him by his mother, but he'd never been denied working the grounds, riding, or hiking. He moves fast—faster than Crowley had expected, clearly—and he's the first one to the gate.

It's closed. Fire burns along the undergrowth of the ravine just beyond it; the hedges hadn't existed yet. He lifts the latch on the gate, determined to jump through the flames to the river—he might get burned, but he'd live, and then the fire would be between him and Crowley. But before he can push the gate open, Michael calls behind him, and he turns.

He's alone, and Castiel gasps, "Where's Mary?"

He shakes his head, but he can't say it. She—didn't make it. And Michael had.

Castiel knows about Mary's deal. The light in Michael's eyes bespeaks terrible grief and power, and he collapses to his knees in a posture of utter depressive failure. It takes Castiel a moment to understand that Michael is digging up the box and hex bag Mary had buried to sell her soul, and a few more to understand why he'd do such a thing.

By the time the box is out of the ground, Castiel is kneeling before Michael, grappling with him for the box. Michael exchanges his picture with Mary's without a word, and Castiel watches him—change. Instantly, like someone flipping the switch to open an electric circuit—and potentially just as deadly.

Perhaps the moral question of Lucifer repressing his memories is open to honest debate. Castiel doesn't want to remember this. He never wants to remember it. He pinches himself, trying to wake up from a nightmare, but that does nothing. Crowley and Ruby and Crowley's men come up, and Michael's warped, carious yellow eyes fix on them with an expression like hunger.

Castiel watches as one sharpened wingbone rams one of Crowley's men through the chest, spurting blood everywhere. Dissociated from his own limbs, doing what he knows he must have done but without the benefit of hindsight, he swaps his picture with Michael's and buries the box in its shallow grave.

Instantly, Michael goes rigid, his transformed body snapping upright like a puppet caught by strings. Castiel watches Crowley and his men back up as light like hellfire emerges from Michael's body, sending flames skirting past Castiel's head and in all the points of the compass—

No. Not four directions, _five_. Like a star. He's a painter that dabbles in the occult: he notices details like that.

Heat builds behind and around him, until he feels like his clothing has caught fire. His hand is too hot; he shakes it and rubs at it, attempting to get it back to normal temperature.

He is so distracted that he fails to notice immediately that Michael is gone.

By the time one of Crowley's men approaches with a knife and pitchfork—ha, pitchforks and devils; he hadn't noticed that at the time—his arm's outer skin has turned diamantine and indomitable: hot and unbreakable and impossible. He catches the blow on his impervious arm and flings the man behind him directly into the hedge.

It is then that he remembers to look for Michael, but the man is gone.

Also impossible.

But Castiel remembers everything that has happened since this moment. He thinks—maybe—he knows where Michael went, now. 

Hedges grow behind him at an alarming rate. The fire goes out behind him, but others keep burning in every direction he can see. He's alone with a transformed arm, having sacrificed himself to save the person he'd loved most.

He doesn't cry. It's not in him to cry. His mother had long since broken him of that kind of emotional weakness.

He hopes to die, but it doesn't happen. The fires burn for a long time, and Castiel starts to believe that he'll be trapped in his own head forever, repeating the same mistakes until he's forced to kill everyone around him. He collapses backward as rain lashes hard at him, sinking into mud. As he closes his eyes, he hears a familiar voice.

_Your mind is not a trap._

The voice in his head is not Lucifer's. It's Michael's. He sits up, shaking his head in affirmation. "I _knew_ you must have gone somewhere."

A light sound like a chuckle or a snort. Then, _He's going to make you forget me._

"Who?"

_The demon._

Castiel nods again, more slowly now. "Is there anything I can do?"

_No. But I can do something for you._

Michael had given him his periods of partial control, subsuming himself—his identity—so that Castiel could fight back.

In this way, neither of them had been lost—and neither had Mary; not really. Bodies die, but the soul lasts, with rare exceptions, forever.

Castiel gasps because he _remembers_ this. Lucifer had done his best to obliterate the circumstances of Castiel's possession from his mind, but with him gone, there's nothing enforcing the memory block.

"You've done—more than enough," Castiel manages with another gasp. "Have you been—aware? Have you seen—everything?"

_Do I know you're in love with my son?_

Castiel had missed his directness. He wraps his half-transformed arms around his knees and nods shakily.

_I know._

"And you're—okay with that?"

A long pause. Feeling slow on the uptake, Castiel realizes that this part of his memory is not the same. He must be coming back to the present in some way, if Michael is with him and aware of the current situation. Michael's voice, when it answers, is quiet, tentative. _All this happened because I didn't let Mary make her own choices—and because you didn't let me make mine. I think the lesson here is to respect the decisions that other people make._

"Even if it means possession by a demon?"

_Still. **Think.** If Mary had been possessed, you and I might have been able to exorcise it and save her. Because I jumped in without thinking—_

"And me."

_\--yes. Because of that, no one was left to save us. We were stuck here_. His voice is getting quieter now, fading, as if it's coming from a great distance. _I respect your decisions, Castiel._

Another long pause. Castiel sits up. His arm is feeling better, definitely more like human flesh, and he focuses on the sensation, pulling it to him like the comfort of Michael's voice after all these years.

_Take care of him._

Castiel blinks and feels the last of the warmth in his arm fade, only to be replaced by searing heat on seemingly all sides. Castiel pulls himself back to the present with difficulty. He reminds himself that Crowley is dead. So is Lucifer. So is M—so is everyone. He's the last survivor.

Well, maybe not the last. Sam's presence becomes real to him again by slow degrees, and he remembers that Lucifer and Ruby had followed the same track, with minor variations, in order to recreate the original spell that had trapped Lucifer. Clearly, that spell had been broken, and Lucifer is dead—but Ruby might not know that. And if Ruby casts a spell to free a powerful demon that is already dead—

He swallows and blinks ash out of his eyes. It's possible that nothing worse than the forest fire will happen. It's also possible that she'll free something else—the next-highest monster on the food chain. Summoning spells are rarely specific about which monstrosity they unleash upon the world.

If he can't undo Lucifer's spell before Ruby completes hers, he may be battling demons all over again.

 As he nudges Sam in the shoulder, he recalls something else--potentially, something helpful.

 "I remember," Castiel gasps.

 "What do you remember?"

"How Michael made the fire. What Ruby did—must have done."

The locations inside the hedge barrier had been laid out in a rough pattern like a five-pointed star: the house, the greenhouse, outbuildings and storage silos, stables. The shape these locations made created a kind of devil's trap; removing or damaging one of them weakened the hold the spell had over Lucifer. But weakening is not breaking, and Lucifer had not been able to destroy even the house completely despite decades of effort.

Which means Ruby hadn't weakened the barrier.

She'd broken it, along the perimeter, somewhere. That's easier: it doesn't require Lucifer to destroy anything, and the materials needed to implement the spell had been buried at—

"The gate," he gasps. "Get to the gate." Lucifer had tried to cross there, and hadn't quite been able to. The barrier had been broken—it hadn't lit on fire—but the bullet in his leg had stopped him.

And maybe something else, as well.

Castiel's transmogrification had begun the night of the fire, but he hadn't heard _Lucifer_ inside his head until the fires had gone out—until he'd tried to leave the estate. He knows now that this is because Lucifer had been forced to deal with Michael first. The thought pricks something in him, goading him to do better, focus more.

"Moving as fast as I can here, man," Sam says, but Castiel notices that he grips Castiel's legs a little harder, and that they start moving faster.

Time stretches. Castiel keeps hanging on to consciousness, somehow. Adrenaline? Stress? Residual side effect of long-term demonic possession? Unwillingness to let Michael and Dean and everyone down? 

When they get to the gate, they find Bobby there ahead of them. He scans Sam and Castiel with a little frown, fire spreading behind him. Ruby had even set the hedges on fire, perhaps hoping to trap her enemies before they could escape. A successful strategy, it seems.

               Dean straggles up behind, a shadow in smoke, and when he comes up Castiel remembers why it was important to get here so quickly. He scrabbles off Sam's back in an ungraceful movement, then buries his hands in the dirt next to the gate, painfully close to the fire. He had buried it here, somewhere—

Selling one's soul to a demon has specific protocols. Michael had buried his picture here in a box—Castiel finds the box containing his picture, but it's not what he's looking for so he tosses it aside.

He had painted that picture, damn it.

The picture of himself is also one he'd painted. He finds the leather box next to Michael's, some inches away. The photo inside is worn by time; its protective matte gloss is gone, and the corners are rounded by moisture and mold.

Still, it's recognizable as him—at least, he can remember himself looking and being like the serious man with the cutting eyes that regards him out of the past like a judge—or an executioner.

The fires had been set. The picture's been removed.

There's just one more thing he needs.

"The amulet," Castiel says. "I need it." He turns to face Dean, but Dean doesn't meet his eyes.

 "It's in Lawrence," Dean says. "I don't have it."

Ah, so that's it. The fire moves closer to him by slow degrees, but he scarcely feels it. As he looks at the fire, he sees that the hedges themselves have become blackened ash, and that the undergrowth is gone. However, the flames are as high as ever, even with less fuel—which means the spell keeping him here is still in full effect.

Lucifer is gone, but he'll be trapped here until he dies.

Cautiously, he stumbles back from the hedge, trying to see if the flames will go out without his presence. There is no change, and Castiel remembers seeing the fire at a distance on Sam's back. Ruby had truly trapped them all here.

His entire body feels numb. He's come to the end of himself. Without every piece of the original spell, there is no way to undo it.

Lucifer had probably known this would happen.

There's a flash of light to Castiel's left that he doesn't acknowledge. He stares into the flames with the picture in his hands and waits to be consumed. It's an end, of sorts, and one he's ready for. Dimly, he is aware of people moving around him, saying words, but he doesn't understand them. Whatever they're saying is unimportant to him.

Then the light catches his eye again. Irritated despite himself, he turns to look at it and sees something small and metal and familiar illumining the face of Bobby Singer like a ghost. He stumbles upright and lurches into movement before he can blink, snatching the amulet from Mr. Singer—

\--who catches his arm in a grip like a vise. "What are you doing?"

Castiel has no time for this. He yanks his arm out of Mr. Singer's grasp so quickly that the other man lets it go, though he thinks he hears a cracking noise as it's released. The hand keeps hold of the amulet, and Castiel faces the fire squarely.

He's ready, though he's not entirely sure this will work.

The amulet in his hand emits light like a star. His picture is in his other hand. With the deliberate care of a sleepwalker, he feeds them both to the flames at the same time.

His fingers burn, but he doesn't care. Two hands catch him from behind and pull him backwards, but that doesn't matter: he's done what he needed to do.

The red-gold flames before him turn the same terrifying electric blue he'd seen when Lucifer had touched the gate, roaring in a sound like a gale for a few seconds—but only a few seconds.

Then all the flames Ruby and Lucifer had coaxed to life flicker and go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of the main fic after this, plus (maybe) some gravy chapters after I get going on the next thing I'm writing. Sorry the gaps have been longer lately; I've been traveling for work and it's sometimes hard to get time.


	40. Separate Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story got way too far ahead of me. The original idea was to have Mary narrate the ending (similar to how Jo narrated the beginning), but I felt that there was too much left unresolved. This chapter went a new and interesting way, which is part of why it took me so darn long to post. I suspect it's part and parcel of the lingering issue I have with all Beauty and the Beast stories: the difference in power and agency between the two main characters. (Alas, this isn't something Panna a Netvor really fixes, either.) Here goes my attempt to level the playing field…

The wee morning hours after the fire see Sam, Dean, Castiel, Bobby and Garth stacked like planks of wood next to one another close to Bobby's hearth. The journey back to Lawrence had taken what little remaining strength they'd had, and Mary stays close to watch over them, wary of enemies. They had left Ruby McCloud in the woods, somewhere, and Mary's sure she'll try to enact revenge somehow—if not for Lucifer, then to protect her own reputation.

Ruby appears at Bobby's door a little before dawn, a pale bloody figure in a black dress, and Mary stands up tall and ready for a fight. She's been attached to Dean for a very long time—years, decades—but the protective pull is stronger since he'd come in contact with Lucifer, and she knows she's far too apt to rage.

She's becoming a vengeful spirit. If she's not careful, her sons will have to hunt her soon.

The part of her that is distressed by this idea is consumed by the sight of the witch at her door. Almost without thinking, Mary flashes over to Ruby and shoves her backwards with all her force. Ruby rolls backwards, turning the movement into a flip and landing on her hands.

"You survived," she gasps, and Mary notices that she is hurt. Blood marks her face and side; one arm is cut open deep and the way she's leaning makes her favor her left side.

"So did you," Mary spits.

Ruby's eyes go wide as saucers. "Did he—?"

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that she means Lucifer, and Mary shakes her head firmly in denial. "No."

Ruby stands up, wobbly on her feet, and grips a hex bag in her undamaged hand. As she starts a low chant, Mary shoves her backward again, knocking the hex bag out of her hand. She keeps pushing with the force of a gale, so hard that Ruby is forced backward through the doorframe. Mary slams the hinges on her knuckles and locks the door.

"And _stay out_ ," she hisses, wishing Bobby's place weren't quite so ghost-proof so that she'd be strong enough to kill intruders. She could push her limitations, but she might lose her connection to Dean—weakened enough, she might come untethered.

She turns to look at Dean where he's sleeping, one arm around Sam and the other wedged under Castiel at an awkward angle. Clearly, he doesn't want either of them going anywhere, and Mary's lips twitch to a smile.

Then the gust of the door closing whooshes over the sleepers, startling Castiel awake. His eyes open and his shoulders lock: small movements that don't wake anyone else. His eyes fix on her in the dark. Carefully slow, moving as if encased in ice, Castiel gets to his feet and crosses the room to her, shivering when he leaves the warmth of the fire.

"Lock the door behind me," he whispers. He opens the door and walks through it before she can so much as blink, though he is careful to close it quietly.

"Wait!" she calls after him, but he doesn't look back. Mary tries to follow him through the wall, but her effective radius is only about twenty feet from Dean, and she quickly loses sight of Castiel, limping and shoeless as he is.

Dean will not be pleased about this when he wakes up. Not one bit.

As Mary returns to the rooms where her sons are sleeping and locks them all in, she wonders where Castiel is going.

 

***

 

Jessica Winchester shows up at Bobby's before sunup and damn near bangs down the door. Her expression is harried and she's very, very pregnant; Mary guesses she's been up all night searching for Sam. Sam, Dean, Bobby and Garth all wake up; Sam's arm pokes Dean in the eye as he stands to unlock the door and greet her. She stands there, hands on hips, looking far more formidable than any of the men in the room as she surveys their injuries with a deep frown.

"Okay," she says. "You will go to the kitchen and sit. I'm making breakfast. Then you'll tell me everything."

Sam and Bobby both give weary nods, and Garth's ears perk up like his wolf counterpart's at the mention of breakfast. Dean performs a three-quarter spin and asks, "Wait, weren't there more of us?"

A few seconds later, Garth sniffs the air and says, "Castiel is gone. Trail's almost cold."

Dean tries to skip breakfast and go searching, but Jessica gives him a look that might strip paint at fifty yards. He sits in the kitchen with the others while Jessica rummages for edibles in Bobby's kitchen.

Mary quietly approves. Even if Dean leaves now, Castiel has more than enough of a head start to outrun him, both of them as injured as they are.

It's not like that'll stop Dean, though. Not _her_ son. Mary stands close enough to see the tightening of the tic in his cheek that signals anxiety as he eats and pretends to be fine.

Even bet that he'll be going after Castiel soon.

Good. That's what she wants to do, too.

Over breakfast, Jessica fills everyone in on the damage the fire had done to the town. "I was worried sick," she says, frowning at Sam. "I knew you were out there, I just didn't know where. The fire spared most of the town—that's the good news—but it burned down the McCloud place. There's barely anything left. I saw Rowena McCloud on a cart out of town this morning. I'm not sure she's coming back."

Sam and Dean exchange a significant look. "And Ruby?"

Jessica's mouth tightens in a way that tells Mary that Jessica must know of Sam's past history with Ruby. "No word," Jessica says, "and no one's seen her. But the Miltons left as well—I saw Zachariah on the same cart, and I imagine Bartholomew will be leaving soon, too. Their family home in the woods was completely destroyed. They think that's where the fire started."

Sam coughs, reddens a bit, and reveals no information directly.

Dean sighs and says, "Yeah, Ruby set the fire in the woods there. Her and a couple of other people." Mary notices who he doesn't mention, and she thinks Sam notices this as well. "We managed to put it out, but it had blazed a trail pretty close to Lawrence by then."

"I'm just glad everyone's alive. And mostly intact." She looks at Sam's head wound and shoulder, forehead pinching together. "Don't leave me like that again."

"We won't," Sam promises.

Dean doesn't look so sure. Hunters try to retire—hell, Dean had all but retired—and a demon had found him anyway.

 

 ***

 

Seeing the world over Dean’s shoulder isn’t so bad for Mary, now that Lucifer is gone. Of course, Michael is gone, too, which might be contributing to her odd lapses into visibility and rage. She'll have to follow him, soon.

But not yet.

After breakfast, Dean tries to go looking for Castiel, but Sam convinces him to come home and "at least put on actual boots without scorch holes in them, for God's sake," so Dean follows him back to the house. Mary tags along close behind, eager to be off herself. She thinks Castiel had probably returned to the woods, but that could be a mistaken assumption, and if Dean waits too long she's sure that Castiel can put an escape plan together.

Part of her even understands why he'd do something like that. He's put his friends and family and everyone he ever cared about through Hell, and now he wants to run away from it.

Mary had done something similar, once. But it hadn't fixed anything.

After Dean puts on a new pair of boots and grabs his hunting gear, he searches the woods all day for a trail with Garth as an odd sort of bloodhound. The fire had obliterated most useful smells, and it's unlikely Garth would be able to pick up anything even if Castiel had returned this way, but Dean insists on trying, and Garth doesn't have the heart to say no.

They spend a day and a night in travel, Dean pushing hard and Garth insisting on breaks, but Mary knows before the first day is over that Castiel isn't ahead of them. She suspects Dean knows it, too, but thoroughness demands that he search everywhere Castiel might be—and, she realizes, Dean doesn't know that Castiel has other places he could go.

When Dean and Garth get to the charred remains of the iron gate and the decimated hedge, there are no footprints in the ash except their own. It's clear that no one else has come this way since the previous night. Dean goes a little further in, looking for anything that remains of the house or stables, but there's nothing; two fires had been set there.

When they reach the greenhouse that had preserved Dean's life against winter and Lucifer, they find the panels smashed and the flowers wilting around the edges. The magical protection that Michael had imbued the place with had passed with him. The winter sanctuary that had kept Dean alive all these long months is half in rubble.

It’s no surprise to Mary that they find no trace of Castiel there.

For all that she was prepared for this outcome, watching Dean turn his back on the broken greenhouse with an expression like tempered iron twists something in Mary. She knows Dean; he won't rest until he finds some explanation for what happened, some trail to follow.

If Castiel hadn’t gone back to his house in the woods, there’s only one other place he’d be—if he's not dead in a ditch somewhere.

Mary could tell Dean where he is. She’s getting stronger; might be able to make herself understood. She wants to try—but she doesn't. Castiel’s life is his business. She’s already caused him enough trouble.

She wishes Dean’s worry weren’t so catching. If Castiel is where she thinks he is, he could probably use Dean's help.

 

***

 

By the time Dean and Garth get back to Lawrence, defeated, bedraggled, and quite a bit worse for the wear, the fortunes of the town have changed in a whirlwind of unusual good luck. Three ships presumed lost the previous year—before John had sent away for the things for Sam's wedding to Ruby—return to port with three-quarters cargo intact. They're not much, but they push the Winchesters from bare survival to financial solvency, and Sam is practically over the moon at being able to buy baby clothes and diapers, of all things.

"I'm happy for you, Sam," Dean says, and he is, but his eyes haven't lost that hollow look that's been there since he'd found the greenhouse empty. Mary sees the effort he needs to keep things together for Sam and knows that a bottle and a blackout is in his near future.

Poor Sam. A broken brother, a stubborn father and a baby on the way—

John, at least, has generously offered half of the Winchesters' windfall to repair the millwheel faster, so the town has bread again already, which is clearly something of a relief to Dean. He'd given another portion to Bobby and Ellen for their help against Lucifer, and the rest has clearly gone to restoring the house to something like its normal state.

Seeing old books and trinkets and dishes that she'd thought lost forever warms Mary through, making her feel a great deal more benevolent. Dean cheers up a bit and pours a celebratory pint to share with Sam, while Jessica and Ellen cook a feast and open the doors to all the neighbors.

Later, after everyone goes to bed, Dean tiptoes to Mary's old room and stares at the place where her portrait used to be. She realizes that this restoration is not enough for him. The dead look is back in his eyes, and he is focusing on what's missing, not what's there.

She lays a hand on his shoulder that he doesn't feel and sits with him while he drinks.


	41. The Witch

Aside from Castiel's continued absence, the only other bit of bad news is that Adam seems to have disappeared, around the same time as Rowena McCloud. Given what John tells them of Adam, it makes sense that he'd want to follow Ruby McCloud, but the news doesn't sit right with Mary. Sam and Dean are her sons; Adam is not, and she has never found him particularly trustworthy. She knows Ruby McCloud is still alive, and Jessica's reports from the gossip mill around the town claim that she hadn't left town.

She's still here. And if she is, so is Adam. Mary would bet her afterlife on it.

If Ruby is still in Lawrence, then Sam is in danger—but Mary can do little about that. She's attached to Dean, not Sam, and while they're frequently together, there's always the chance that the bitch of a witch will attack her youngest son when she's not looking.

Because Ruby is exactly that evil, that is exactly what happens.

With the Miltons gone, Sam takes up a place as an amateur doctor—better than most professionals, really, in terms of patient outcomes—and continues his work as the town clerk. The work suits him, and he'll do almost anything to earn more money for the baby.

So it is that when Mary has been trailing an increasingly stir-crazy Dean for over a week, Sam spends the night away from home, at his office in town. No one thinks anything strange about this; by the hunch in Dean's shoulders and his rate of alcohol consumption, Mary would guess he's thinking that Sam's avoiding him. Even she knows better: that's not Sam's way. If Dean was honest about what he needed, Sam would help him, no question.

Sam's all-focus on providing for his wife and child has a single-minded fanaticism to it that Dean should recognize. It's clear that grief has dulled his edge. Facts that should be apparent are no longer obvious to him. Mary wishes she could kick him, sometimes, even though she's sure that wouldn't help.

It's past midnight before anyone starts worrying about Sam. Jessica paces the kitchen floorboards back and forth, appearing ripe as a grapefruit. Her belly button now pushes to the outside, and Mary knows her time is close. It's clear that Jessica does, too, and her mortal terror of having her first child alone, without her husband with her, takes on a desperate cast, making her face looked bleached and hollow.

"Where is he?" she hisses at Dean, who had fallen asleep at the kitchen table with a bottle in his hands.

"Where's who? Dad?" It's a reflex; Sam had asked this question so often when they'd been kids that it's the first thing out of his mouth. Mary recognizes it as such and frowns.

"No, idiot," she says. "Sam." Her hands come to rest on her stomach, fingers twisting together.

Dean's up in an instant, stretching to the ceiling and then reaching for his coat, the bottle still in his other hand. "I'll go check on him. Report back."

He's halfway to the door when Jessica answers, "I did that. He's not at work."

Dean turns to face her, and the look on his face is sober and grave. He sets the bottle down on the table. "Gotcha."

He exchanges the bottle for a hunting rifle and a leather satchel near the door and is half-running toward the McClouds' burned shell of a house before Jessica can respond.

Mary is dragged along for the ride, Dean's sluggish pace making her feel something like seasickness. Airsickness? She wonders why Dean thinks Sam would be at the McClouds', of all places, but then she thinks it through. If Sam is not at work at this hour, well—nothing else is open. Even the bar closes at midnight.

And only the McClouds count as enemies, now. Adam would have no separate place to take him—only a place that belonged to them.

Clever, Dean.

She ruffles his hair in a movement he doesn't notice, and sighs.

When they reach the McClouds, Mary thinks they've come too late.

Jessica's report had been accurate: there's not much left of the house. One wall, a door, the blackened floor and a few charred overhead beams: nothing else remains. In the dim light, the place looks almost like a derelict ship, haunted by ghosts.

Sam lies facedown on the floor motionless, still, like a drowned victim—or a sacrifice.

Dean's over him instantly, reaching for a pulse that he finds after frenetic searching. His fumbling is so frantic that he loses the satchel; its contents tumble out on the dark ground, but Dean pays no attention to that. He breathes, and Mary starts searching the area around them for company—and hex bags.

"Hex bag," Dean says aloud, as if reading her mind. "Gotta find it—"

Mary's more sensitive to magic in her ghost form, and she's faster than him in any case—all she lacks is range. If the hex bag is more than fifty feet in either direction from this place, she won't be able to find it.

Fortunately, she doesn't have to look far—and Sam's attacker hadn't been subtle; there are traces of demonic residue around Sam that are as easy to read as footprints. She follows the trail of yellow-gold residue with a little frown, and discovers Adam hiding—poorly—behind a tree. If it wasn't so dark, he'd be clearly visible from where Sam is lying. Not for the first time, Mary is glad Adam isn't her son.

Dean doesn't need her help to find him: he comes up behind her almost immediately, and grabs Adam by the arm. "Hex bag. Give it."  
               "I—I—I don't have it—" Adam's voice stutters, but his shoulders are level and straight, and his chin is high. If he's pretending to be afraid of Dean, he's bad at it.

Dean rolls his eyes, clocks back his free arm, and smacks Adam handily across the forehead. He goes to his knees, stunned, while Dean takes the opportunity to pick his pockets. He finds two hex bags and grips them in one fist; then he lands another blow across Adam's neck to knock him unconscious.

Dean has the hex bags; now he needs fire.

Mary follows along with him while he sprints to the first friendly house—which is, thank God, Bobby's. Dean breaks down the door and tosses both hex bags into Bobby's dying fire. By the time they're destroyed, Bobby has come downstairs with a rifle cocked and ready, expecting Dean to explain the mess.

"Ruby tried to kill Sam," Dean gasps, out of breath from running. "Or Adam did. Or both."

Bobby lowers his rifle an inch or two. "Where are they?"

"Adam's passed out. I don't know—Ruby—I didn't see—"

Bobby nods sharply and brings his rifle to his shoulder. "Right. I'm coming with you."

They sprint back to Sam together. Sam has come to, and trussed Adam neatly in rope from the satchel Dean had dropped in his initial haste to get to Sam. "Where's Ruby?" Dean asks when he gets close.

Sam points, and finds Ruby tied to a tree with a hex bag in her mouth. She isn't moving.

"Is she--?"

"Yeah," Sam says. Because he's Sam, he doesn't look happy about it. Mary takes note of Ruby's injuries from the woods, her cold lifeless eyes, and can't help but think the world is better without Ruby in it—without people who risk their lives solely to destroy the lives of others.

Strange to think that Sam had loved her, once.

Dean takes the rope holding Adam from Sam's fingers and hauls Adam up to eye level. "C'mon, kid. You're coming with me."

"Where?" Adam says. He tries to slip free of the ropes, with comically little result.

"Jail. Where else?"

 

***

 

It's not an easy thing for Dean to put his brother—technically, his cousin—behind bars. Mary sees that in every step he takes, every movement a little heavier, a little slower than normal. He'd like to believe better of Adam, but Mary knows better. And Adam is not her son; she has no need or compunction to be proud of her part in him, as Dean does.

Like Sam, Dean had helped raise Adam. For whatever reason, Dean hadn't been enough for him, somehow—at least, that's what Dean's thinking. She can tell: it's what she'd be thinking in his place. Because she's not, she thinks him foolish. Adam is an adult that made his own choices: Dean is not responsible for him.

When Sherriff Hanscum locks him up behind bars, Dean doesn't say a word, and he doesn't look back when Adam calls to him for help. He goes home and drinks. Again.

              

***

 

A month later, Jessica gives birth to a daughter. She decides to name her Joanna Beth, after Sam and Dean's fallen friend. Then she sleeps for three days straight off and on, struggling with post-birth fever. Bobby is half-convinced that Ruby put a curse on Jessica before she died, to ensure her death once the baby was born, but constant vigilance and a thorough search of the property fail to turn up any evidence of witchcraft.

The Winchesters just have bad luck, apparently.

Mary wants to watch over Jessica with Sam, but Dean has trouble watching her suffer. Mary suspects that this has something to do with how much Jessica resembles her. Dean and Mary only ever see her when Dean checks on Sam—who is, of course, glued to Jessica's bedside, and likely will be until her life is out of danger. Ellen comes early on the second day after the birth, and even she doesn't have the heart to pry Sam from Jessica's side. The sickroom becomes hot and damp and oppressive; Dean stays away.

Instead of tending to Jessica, Dean tends baby Jo.

Sam is consumed with keeping Jessica alive, and Jessica is in no state to breast feed yet. Kate had packed and gone to Naples after the fire had hit Lawrence, claiming the (nonexistent) ash in the air made her cough. John makes frequent trips to and from Prague, standing up his business again after the previous year's losses—and Adam is in prison. There's no one else.

Dean had taken care of Sam when he'd been in diapers and their dad had gone away, making him the most qualified caretaker in the household, in any case. He accepts his role gracelessly, even though he's good at it.

Because he hates it. Mary can tell. Oh, he values his role and loves the baby like his own: that much is obvious. But it's clear that he wants to be someplace else, do other things, and he can't while he's chained to an infant.

Mary remembers that feeling. Much though she loves her children, she had loved Dean more once he'd become a bit more independent, a bit more able to care for himself. And as for Sam—she hadn't even seen him take his first steps.

Spending most of his time taking care of Jo exhausts Dean. Bad enough she's named after a friend he'd failed to save; she's also keeping him from finding another friend. This wears on him in a way he doesn't allow anyone but the baby—and Mary, unconsciously—to see. When Sam's out of the room, his face takes on the pinched, gaunt look of a derelict; some of the light in his eyes goes out. Mary catches him crying more than once, the baby's hands poking curiously against his face to clear the tears there.

Bobby visits as often as he can, sometimes sending Garth when he can't get away. Even with the millwheel repaired, Lawrence continues to be food-starved from the fire and terrible winter, and Bobby's wares are in high demand. Dean talks to Bobby about making glass, and Bobby takes messages from Dean to Sarah Blake, the glassblower, but Dean can't build greenhouses or garden when the baby needs him. Garth offers to help her make the glass and set it into leaded panes, but a single day of broken glass and a small fire caused in the soldering process makes it clear that Sarah is better off making the glass herself.

About three weeks after Jessica gives birth, her fever finally breaks, and she is able to sit up and eat and take water on her own. Another week passes before she's cogent enough to ask for her baby, and by that time Jo has attached to Dean with all the tenacity of her namesake. It takes three tries and Sam's soothing-skittish-horses voice to calm the baby enough to give her to Jessica.

Once Jessica holds the baby, she doesn't want to let go.

Jo keeps giving Dean sidelong glances, as if verifying that her current position and location is safe. Dean does his best to reassure her from a distance.

Jessica looks up at him with a knowing smile. "Thanks, Dean," she says, her voice still a bit strained from sickness. "I'll take it from here."

Dean nods tightly, feeling something rise in his throat. Sam claps him on the shoulder, then takes his place next to Jessica, mapping out the baby's tiny fingers with his hand. Jo burbles happily, recognizing the motion as a game, and Dean slips out as silently as he can, closing the door behind him.

Once the door is closed, the long sleepless month buffets him like a wave, sending him halfway to his knees before he catches himself on the wall with a muffled thump. Long nights of sitting up with Jo making applesauce and running to Ellen's farm for milk hit him as if he's suffered them all at once, instead of all along. He stumbles into his room and pitches headfirst into bed fully clothed, asleep in seconds.


	42. Pariah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angels are dicks in every universe. Sorry, Cas. Sooo…ritualistic torture and body mutilation in this chapter. Seriously, I am sorry. :(

Castiel limps home on foot.

It's a long walk, but he bears it as if he were stoic. His feet had gone numb on the way back from the woods and the fire, and the cold tingling along his nerves does not trouble him now. He has his feet, his tattered body and clothes, his sense of guilt: nothing else remains, not even the demon who had kept him alive for so long.

Well, not _alive._ More like in suspended animation. Mr. Singer had told him he hadn't aged a day. Most of his family won't remember what he looks like—but some might. They might.

Zachariah should, at least. Castiel shudders a little at that. Though not as fanatical as his mother, Zachariah had shared most of her—opinions.

Castiel is going home, but he doesn't really feel like he has a family. He wonders what that says about him. As a child, he'd dreamed romantic dreams of orphanhood, unattachment, freedom to wander the world and reshape his identity as he pleased.

But those were dreams, and Castiel has spent the last twenty years in the nightmare that is reality. Lucifer being gone doesn't change what he is, what he always has been. Even if his family doesn't remember him personally, they'll remember the black mark on the family name that he put there, and they'll punish him for it.

Castiel is counting on it.

When he remembers the look Mary had given him when he'd escaped Mr. Singer's, he stumbles a step and nearly falls, but he knows he can't go back. Going back to Mr. Singer and the Winchesters might restore his body, but that course of action will not give him meaning—the essential _why_ he's spent so long chasing. Painting had once helped rein in the impulse to chase the essential _why,_ but he is not a painter now; he is not anything. He is an abandoned vessel; he feels hollow through, like a shell a crab leaves behind when it grows too large to live in it anymore.

Since a little before the second fire, he's been looking for a better answer, a meaning for his existence. Foolishly, perhaps selfishly, he'd expected to find that meaning in his own death, but his heartbeat continues to be steady, if ragged, and his feet, though alarmingly purple, don't appear infected or irreparably damaged. As the sleet falling turns to rain, his hands and feet thaw out, appearing swollen but not chilblained or ice-damaged.

By the time he reaches the gate outside the old Milton summer house, he has resigned himself to the idea that he might live.

The idea doesn't bring him any comfort.

A woman he doesn't recognize comes to the gate to welcome him, and he stumbles in, the gate creaking behind him like the closing of the gates of Hell. The chipped paint and dead ivy in the eaves let him know this place has been neglected for some time—which makes him glad. He's always hated it here.

The woman guides him patiently, almost kindly, toward the main house; she clearly does not recognize him, either. She settles him before the board and brings bread and water: thin rations, but the first food he's had in over half a day. Sustenance and long walking make him tired; when he stretches out on the stone hearth in front of the fire, no one stops him.

Before he falls asleep, he says a prayer that he won't wake up.

 

***

 

When Castiel does wake in the gray light of morning, it's to hushed voices speaking nearby. He keeps his eyes closed and listens.

"—let him in here? Don't you know what he is?" a man's voice hisses.

"Um, a beggar seeking shelter from the storm?" a woman answers. Castiel tries to figure out if it's the woman from the previous night. He thinks it might be, but he can't be sure.

"And just how many beggars have you seen here before?"

"None, sir, but I—"

Castiel opens his eyes and sits up. He turns in the direction of the voices, putting his back to the dying fire. He sees the woman from the night before and a balding man with a hawklike nose and uncompromising expression: Zachariah, many years older. Castiel swallows. "My apologies," he says. "I've intruded." He attempts to stand, but heat and rest have restored feeling to his feet; they're not numb now, and pain lances up both calves all the way to his hips. He squats down involuntarily, catching himself on his hands.

"Damn right you have," Zachariah says. "And you can get the hell out of here, Castiel."

The woman's eyes flick between them, her expression changing to one of sudden understanding. " _Castiel?_ " She gives Castiel a probing look that's uncomfortable, as if she's peeling back his skin to see what's inside. He remembers that look on his mother's face, and seeing it on hers makes the family resemblance unmistakable. "That's impossible. He's been dead twenty years, and he can't be older—"

"It's a long story," Castiel cuts in.

"He is an abomination," Zachariah says with a sniff. "Several times over."

The woman nods slowly. Her eyes lock on Castiel's, and though her focus on him is intense, her eyes have an otherwhere quality that makes it appear that she is looking elsewhere, beyond him. "I have heard—what you are. The stories." Her chin juts up, defiant. "Are they true?"

"Yes." Castiel knows what he is. He's never tried to hide it—only to minimize the damage done to others.

"And do you repent?" the woman asks in a fanatical tone that reminds Castiel so strongly of his mother that for a moment the woman blurs with her. He's a frightened child again, too scared to lie.

"No," he says softly. He cannot help what he is. All he can do is try to find meaning in it—before he dies.

"Hm." The woman sniffs. "Then you must be punished."

"Yes," Castiel breathes. He's willing to believe he's cursed, flawed from birth like his mother always said. The accursed always deserve punishment. Retribution.

Zachariah's eyes widen, and he remains silent for a few moments. Then the corners of his lips twitch upward in the ghost of a smile. "All right. If punishment's what you want, punishment's what you'll get."

 

***

 

The woman's name is Naomi, named for Castiel's mother. She conducts his daily punishments while Zachariah watches with apparent, though quietly contained, glee.

The scourge comes first, and that is so familiar to him: sharp points tearing rents in his flesh as if it were cloth, erasing his undeserved healing, restoring the network of scars along his spine. It hurts, but it's a clear hurt, easy to handle. He remembers it, and remembering it helps ground him, get back to the person he was before being possessed.

Naomi seems to find his passivity toward the scourge unsatisfying, even when she makes him whip himself. She prefers using a scalping knife—something small and sharp and precise. She cuts symbols and prayers into his flesh as if she thinks they can purify him.

Castiel prefers the scourge. It's more honest, and the pain he gets from it is bright and consistent, coming in time with the strikes and lingering in predictable places. Naomi's more creative punishments feel like needles moving up his spine to his brain, first sharp, then dull, but persistent, like the buzzing of insects in his ear. The pain is annoying, not clarifying, and he resents it.

He reminds himself that he's being punished, and does not complain.

Another man—Castiel learns that his name is Bartholomew, and that Bartholomew is his first cousin and closest living relative—also comes to observe, at times, though it's clear he derives no pleasure from watching Castiel bleed onto the chapel floor.

The sessions culminate in a ritualistic setup of Castiel performing the Stations of the Cross. Zachariah produces a red-purple robe from God knows where, and Naomi fashions a crown of dead grape vines that poke his forehead as if they were thorns. In the end, Naomi and Zachariah tie him to an X-shaped cross, binding both hands and feet. They hammer a nail into the fleshy part of each palm, avoiding bone, and hang him up in the chapel like a warning—or a sacrifice.

Then they leave him there—he's not sure how long. Bartholomew finds him; he knows this because his face is the first thing Castiel sees after he startles back to consciousness with one palm bleeding profusely and all his limbs gone numb. He sees as well as feels Bartholomew remove the second nail; then the ties holding him up are cut, and he collapses like a puppet onto the chapel's stone floor.

Mercifully, he loses consciousness again sometime soon after, and when he comes to, Bartholomew is standing over him as if he's guarding a tomb. "What are you--?"

"Don't talk," Bartholomew says. "You need your strength."

Strength? Castiel's hands are on fire, and his feet don't feel much better.

"Why don't you stop them?" Bartholomew asks.

"Stop—who?"

Bartholomew bend level with him to look him in the eye. "You know what I mean. You were a demon, weren't you? At least partly? Can't you fight them off?"

Castiel finds this idea laughable. "Even if I could," he says tiredly, "why should I? They're trying to help."

Bartholomew's mouth twists. "They're going to kill you."

 _Good,_ Castiel thinks. He should have died—long ago.

 

***

 

The week after what Bartholomew calls the "crucifixion incident," another cousin, Samandriel, comes to visit. His shock of pale hair and watery eyes tell Castiel he's a cousin from his father's side. He treats Castiel kindly at meals, which is unexpected, even producing ointment so his hands won't fester.

Castiel accepts this kindness without speaking, doing his best to pretend the kid doesn't exist. He sees the glances that pass between Naomi and Zachariah, and thinks he knows how to interpret them. They think Samandriel is weak, and Castiel isn't sure that's fair. After all, he knows everything about Castiel that Zachariah and Naomi do; he just chooses not to condemn him for it.

He is the first person Castiel has met since Dean who doesn't automatically hate him for what he is. The memory of Dean hurts as much as Naomi's flensing knife, and he swallows it down before he can do something stupid like beg Samandriel to take him with when he goes to Prague. The idea scares the living hell out of him; he doesn't do it.

For a Milton, Samandriel— _another_ _Sam,_ Castiel realizes with a start—is shockingly compassionate. Castiel doesn't know how to respond to that, so he pretends to be senseless: deaf and mute and unresponsive, moving only to feed and relieve himself, sleeping long portions of the day. His injuries are healing, but that's temporary; his penitence sessions will continue once he's well enough.

About a week after he arrives, Samandriel tracks Castiel to one of the abandoned outbuildings of the house where Castiel is staying. He stays here at his own insistence: he isn't able to sleep anywhere in that house, and the decrepitude of the building he's in, with its sagging walls and leaking roof, seem symbolically appropriate: a physical representation of his internal state. It has the added advantage of being far enough from the house that he can go hours, and sometimes as much as half a day, without seeing anyone from the house at all.

Samandriel, it seems, really wants to find him.

"Castiel?" comes through the door, barely muffled; the walls are thin and half-rotted and do little to keep out sound. "Can I come in?"

Castiel doesn't answer. Of course not.

Samandriel comes in anyway.

"I think you can hear me," Samandriel says. "I think you understand what's said—that you can talk, and hear. Am I wrong?"

Castiel doesn't react.

Samandriel makes a light, exasperated sound at the back of his throat that's almost fond, and Castiel's eyes focus on him half a second longer than he wants them to. Samandriel takes one of Castiel's ragged hands and turns it over. "Zachariah," he says. "He did this to you?"

It's a question, but Castiel doesn't have to answer it.

Michael and Mary had come to rescue him from this place, once. Look what had happened to them.

He refuses to condemn Samandriel.

After a long moment, Samandriel lets go of his hand. "You're scared. I understand. They scare me, too. But I'll help you. I promise."

Castiel takes in the kid's earnest eyes and tilts his head to the side with a little frown.

Samandriel smiles. "I knew you could hear me. I knew it."

Castiel just sighs and looks at his hands.

"I'll come back tonight," Samandriel says. "I'll get you out of here."

 

***

 

Of course, that's not what happens at all.

The pain of infection makes it difficult for Castiel to sleep for long stretches. In any case, even if he'd been asleep, the screaming would have woken him up.

He hears it, lorn and high-pitched and semi-hysterical. He opens both eyes, rubs, stands on wobbly, fluid-filled legs, and goes to investigate the sound.

It's snowing out. Cold, wet, and heavy, it numbs some of the pain in his feet as he walks, raises goosebumps along the line of his spine. As he walks closer to the house—in no hurry; he can't hurry, not with his feet the way they are—the screaming slackens off for a few moments, dying down to almost inaudible volume, and Castiel briefly wonders if he's going the wrong way. Then he pivots toward the chapel on instinct, and the screaming loudens again, guiding his steps like a beacon to a sleepwalker.

He wrenches the door to the chapel open with painful fingers and stands there, in the dark. The only light comes from a single taper in the front pew; even the stars are blotted out by weather. It looks like something Castiel would have liked to paint, a long time ago; a chiaroscuro, white on black and full of contrast.

It's so dark that he doesn't see Samandriel for a moment. Naomi has him on his knees, face half-illumined by the candle; Castiel can hear the sound of the scourge's tiny tines clinking together at the end of their lines. Castiel swallows and takes a step forward.

"Castiel," Naomi says, inclining her head. "Good of you to join us, finally."

Castiel frowns at her. "Why are you harming him? He's done nothing wrong."

"He is not repulsed or horrified by you," she says simply, and there's no heat to the condemnation; she's stating simple facts. "This is not harm. It's correction."

Castiel nods his understanding. Of course. When Naomi whips him, it's punishment because of his continued unrepentance. When Naomi whips Samandriel, it's because she thinks he can still be saved—corrected—fixed.

The act is the same. Mindset seems to make all the difference. Castiel wonders what kind of cruel God first came up with such justifications.

Samandriel fixes his big, watery eyes on Castiel, as if begging him to make Naomi stop, and Castiel shakes his head. "You shouldn't have tried to help me," he says. "No one helps me."

Naomi gives him a look of quiet approval. She strikes Samandriel one more time, and when he cries out, the cry is gasping and desperate like a child's.

Castiel turns to leave, unwilling to participate in Samandriel's correction. Apparently his corruption is a thing that spreads over everyone, blackening them. Michael. Mary. Dean. Samandriel. Naomi is right to punish him.

Samandriel leaves the next day without saying goodbye to anyone. Castiel can't say he blames him.

"Bye, Dean," he says to the fresh wagon-tracks leading to the gate. He'd meant to say, "Bye, Sam," but his mind is confused these days, and he doesn't bother to correct himself.

 

***

 

He's halfway through, or thereabouts, another punishment when he realizes that no form of punishment is going to be enough.

Naomi has stripped him bare this time, starting at his shoulders and moving down, until even his calves and the webbing between his toes are marked with tiny cuts. He can hear his blood beating urgently in his ears, warning him about bleeding out and passing out and dying.

The cuts, though, don't hurt. They've stopped hurting and gone tingly in a way that's almost pleasant, and though his heart beats panic at him, his mind is clear and sharp, like a shard of reality edged enough to cut.

A strike with the whip, soft, almost halfhearted. Naomi says, "Confess, Castiel."

"I am sick," he says, because it's true—in many ways, and since his birth. "I—have committed crimes." Mostly under Lucifer's influence, but—Jo had died, largely because of him. Other travelers had been taken before he could save them. In some ways, he is culpable—and in all ways, he is guilty.

_Flawed from birth._

"Do you repent?" Naomi asks, giving him a more substantial hit this time that makes him choke down something bright and hot in the back of his throat.

The image of saving Dean from the thorns—literal and figurative—he'd gotten stuck in comes to the forefront of his mind. The memory seems bathed in green light, like spring, though it had been winter. "No." He can't regret saving Dean. He can't regret saving Michael, or Mary—or, hell, even John. He can't.

Why do his motives matter so much to God? Shouldn't saving people be what matters?

But he glances back at the exalted expression in Naomi's face and knows he is mistaken.

The pain of his flesh is mortifying, but clear. He deserves it—but it will never make him change.

 

***

 

The pain of hunger is worse than being beaten.

After about three weeks, by Castiel's calculation, Bartholomew had put an end to the more intensive punishment sessions inside the family chapel, claiming that they were ineffective. To be fair, they had been. Clearly, no amount of physical pain can touch Castiel's essential nature. A different tactic is required.

When Bartholomew suggests service work in lieu of physical torture, Castiel seizes on the opportunity like he's been waiting for an excuse.

Not content with making him haul water and chop firewood, Naomi and Zachariah between them convince Castiel to take half-rations, and then half again, considering that it's his fault that the house in the woods is ruined. It's his fault the family doesn't have enough. It's his fault they were ruined in the first place, twenty years ago. Castiel has wide shoulders; he takes it all.

And so Castiel takes on much of the work of a hired hand on so small of portions that is isn't long before he's hungry all the time—and exhausted with it. The gnawing ache is something that he chases away with drinking melted snow from a pot, but the relief from that never lasts long. He craves bread and remembers the sacrament. He wants meat, cheese, carrots, potatoes, spinach—anything. Food becomes all he can think about, an urgent need that sends pain up from his belly and down to his arches, muscles straining and breaking down with malnutrition.

His hunger, more than anything he's endured since the fire, makes him miss Lucifer. At least Lucifer had kept him fed.

It's a Thursday when he collapses, is beaten for it, and limps through the rest of the day: too stubborn to stay down. Zachariah this time, and Bartholomew hadn't stopped him until after his back had been opened with bloody red welts. Bartholomew sends him to his shed with a heel of bread that Castiel devours; afterward Castiel lies prone on the floor, staring at the holes in the ceiling until the pain in his back makes him sit up.

The sharpness of the pain helps him focus, and he hears a voice in his head, comforting, soothing—but it's not Lucifer's.

_How long are you going to keep this up?_

Michael. God damn it all to Hell and blood. Castiel can't help himself: he groans for the voice to shut up so that he can die in peace. Then he spits, "Long enough."

_You have to tell me, Castiel. I don't know how much longer I can keep you alive._

Castiel blinks. And blinks again, deliberately. He sees nothing; there's no one in the shed but him. He pokes at his imperfectly healed hands distractedly, needing the pain to remain fully present and awake. He understands now that the spirit must have hitchhiked from the woods, jumping into the void Lucifer left behind. It explains how he'd managed not to lose his feet, at least. "Let me die."

_No._

"This is cruel," Castiel says, brandishing his wounds like bloody signs.

_Not as cruel as what you're doing to yourself._

"I need to be here," Castiel insists. Naomi and Zachariah and, to a lesser extent, Bartholomew, are punishing him. The punishments make his head clearer, easier. Maybe if he's punished enough he'll forget the last twenty years; forget how to be an abomination to God. Start over. Death is more likely, but at least that'll be the end of it. There's not much about Hell in the Bible.

And even if he goes to Hell, it'll be better than here. He'll be surrounded by men and women just like him. Accepted, part of a tribe. It doesn't sound so bad, really, eternal torture notwithstanding. He thinks he could get used to it.

 _You're not listening to me,_ Michael's voice says, exasperated, sounding far away. _You're losing it._

He's lost it. Somewhere in between saving Dean and banishing Lucifer, he'd lost something vital.

If only it didn't feel so much like something he'd gained.

The voice leaves him alone for the rest of the night, but he's aware of it now. He's also aware that normal people don't hear the voices of people that are not there.

He understands, in an oddly detached way, that he is going insane.

 

***

 

He wakes up one day—he's not sure which it is—to someone knocking on his door. He groans and sits up, broken palms smarting on the filthy floor. His back complains when his shoulders tense; it is difficult to get up. He opens the door, expecting Naomi or Bartholomew with a list of tasks or a whip in hand, but it's neither.

It's—Bobby Singer. Standing outside in the rain, flannel hood and cloak half-soaked, shivering a little at the shoulders. "You gonna invite me in, son?" Bobby asks.

Castiel steps aside—it's not polite to turn away strangers; the Bible encourages hospitality with the promise of a never-ending cruse of oil; he can let him in. Bobby takes in his injuries with a critical eye, frowning. "The hell happened to you?"

"Nothing," Castiel says mildly. "I chose it."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Repentance."

Bobby snorts. "For?"

Castiel shifts his shoulders, spreading pain like fire along all his nerves. "A demon possessed me for twenty years. I did—terrible things."

"You also helped defeat that damn demon, saved Mary's soul and kept Michael's from being taken—not to mention Dean. The Winchesters owe you a debt of gratitude, boy. Why don't you go back?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I—" Castiel wants to say that he wants to go back more than anything, but he can't now. He's too weak and sick and if he tries to travel now he might actually die, and he can't put that on Dean, or on anyone. The pain is starting to have an effect on him; though he might lose his mind, Naomi and Zachariah seem convinced it's possible to save his soul—if he has one.

He stares at his hands and doesn't complete his sentence.  The truth is that there is no longer enough of him left to save—and he's not sure he wants anyone to try.

Mr. Singer seems to understand at least part of his distress. Reaching into his bag, he holds out a heavy flask, six strips of dried jerky and a loaf of bread that Castiel inhales quickly—too quickly; he chokes and spits up the half-chewed remains of the bread he'd just eaten. A few moments later, bile rises in his throat and spills past his lips, stomach kicking out its contents before they can digest. He has the presence of mind to turn his head away from Mr. Singer toward the wall, at least. When he finally stops puking, he edges away from the puddle he's created. Fortunately, it's directly under the biggest leak in the roof; with any luck, the water will wash it away.

"When was the last time you ate?" Mr. Singer asks, incredulous.

"Yesterday," he says simply, because he thinks that's accurate. They feed him every morning that he remembers.

"And now much?"

"Not—much." Bobby hands him more bread, and he chews it more slowly, his stomach making an unhappy rumble as if he's been punched in the gut.

"You're hurt and starved, and you're staying here?"

"Yes."

Bobby's eyes glint hard, and Castiel gets the feeling he's being looked through, as if Bobby's trying to figure him out by main force of will. Castiel is in no mood to be figured out; he's also in no mood to let others make his decisions for him. Lucifer had done that, and now he's here.

"Bye, Mr. Singer," he says in a flat, inflectionless tone.

Bye, Dean.

Bye, Sam.

Bye, Lucifer.

Really, it would be easier if his flesh gave out and let him end, but until then, he'll hand out goodbyes like breadcrumbs to birds, hoping that after it's accepted the birds will fly away.

"Are you kicking me out, boy?"

"Thank you for the food," he says with more composure than he'd thought possible. "My family will compensate you, if you ask for it."

"Aw, hell," Bobby says. "I'd rather eat dirt than ask those bastards for a damned thing." He looks at Castiel again, curious and pitying, and Castiel feels like he's being examined closely, like an object for a still life. It's uncomfortable. "I don't want you to die here."

That's considerate. "Thank you," Castiel repeats in a tone of similar mildness, "but that's not your decision."

He loses clarity then, vision slipping in and out of focus; he's just eaten something like a real meal and it's exhausted him. When he looks for Mr. Singer again, he's gone: Castiel is alone in his shed again, the rain coming in harder now. He pulls a ragged blanket out of the driest corner and wraps himself in it, trying to get warm and go to sleep.


	43. Found and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that delay, but this one was a bear to write. I love me some H/C and think I need it after the last chapter.
> 
> Also, er, sex from an outsider perspective, especially your mom's, is going to be all kinds of awkward. #sorrynotsorry Told ya the last chapter took a bunch of sudden turns…

Dean sleeps for the entire day, night, and the entire next morning. When he gets up, he makes enough hash to feed a small army and eats half of it himself, side of whiskey as per usual. He gives himself a thorough bath in the river that Mary flashes away for, then shaves, dresses, and prepares to go into town without speaking to anyone; Jessica and Sam are still asleep when he leaves, and the house seems somehow colder and emptier without them—to say nothing of John, who's been away more than a month.

Mary has always received some feeling, like sense memory, from Dean: this morning, she feels the loneliness as sharply as if the emotion is her own. Her connection to Dean seems to be getting stronger, and she doesn't know what to make of it. She is tugged along after him despite a strong desire to stay and check up on her granddaughter; if she's not careful, she'll end up resenting her son for limiting her choices in this way, even though it's not his fault.

He pauses in the doorframe before leaving, breathing out a stream of visible air that doesn't make sense given the relatively sunny day outside. Dean shrugs, apathetic and incurious. He breathes a normal breath free of spirit interference and walks out the door.

Dean's first stop in town—surprisingly—is at the glassblower's, Sarah Blake's—Sam's first crush, Mary realizes with a start. Her memories of Dean's childhood are as hazy as his own, but she can tell Dean is friends with this girl, and she remembers Sam tripping all over himself to impress her with his drawings as a child. It's a fond memory, and the feeling she gets from Dean is comforting, comfortable, like he's found some kind of shelter he's been seeking.

"Sarah," Dean says, greeting her with a smile and wave. "How's the glass going?"

"Dull," she says, but her mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Square panels are so—uninspiring. Inartistic."

Dean shrugs. "It's for a good cause."

It is. Mary knows much of the work of building greenhouses had been put on hold with Dean and Sam preoccupied with the baby, but the glass production has kept going. Mary understands how important this work is to Dean. After everything—and everyone—that had been lost, he could do with a win. Hell, the whole town could.

Sarah nods her agreement. "I should have the first set ready in two weeks. Faster, if I get tinct and powder from the city in the next day or two."

"Good," he says. "Did dad pay you?"

"For the first set."

"I'll remind him to set up a standing payment."

She nods again. "Why did you ask me to do this, Dean?"

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

"There are glassblowers in Prague. There's another in town, in fact. Why not just buy the panels from the bigger shops?" She might have been asking, "why ask me to make something so dull?"

He shrugs. "Glass breaks when it travels. I need it here. And I trust you."

Sarah looks at him for a moment, black curls falling to frame her face. Her smile grows wider by degrees, and she says, "All right. But do you mind if I ask Madison for help? If you want to make a lot of these, I might not be able to keep up."

"Sure," he says. He takes up a blank bill of sale from Sarah's counter, and writes down an amount that should more than cover the supplies for another greenhouse. "Make sure she gets this. I'll drop off the money tomorrow."

 

***

 

Dean goes to see Bobby next, but he isn't at home. In fact, the house is shut as if he's gone somewhere for an extended stay; Mary guesses that he's probably gone hunting somewhere. When Dean checks the market square, Bobby isn't there, either, but that's not a surprise. He heads back to Bobby's and sits on the doorstep, uncovering a bottle of… something… from God knows where and uncorking it.

He sits and drinks. Instead of watching him, Mary pokes around Bobby's house, investigating how far she can go from Dean; figuring out where the end of her leash is. She makes it most of the way around the house when she spots something curious through a partly open window. The house is warded against ghosts, so she can't go inside except through the front door, but she can see an old box sitting on the table. The intricate design and Enochian characters are unique: she recognizes the Singer name in there and realizes that it's a container Michael had made to hold the spell meant to save Karen. She cranes her neck to investigate closer and discovers a map half-opened on the table.

There's a marker pushed into it that's set slightly to the north of Lawrence.

Her eyes flick between the map and box as she puts together exactly where Bobby must have gone, and she frowns. There's only one reason for him to go north into the woods this time of year, and it's not for game.

Bobby has gone after Castiel.

At that moment, her stomach lurches, sour, as if she were alive, and she curses as she flashes back to Dean, still drinking on Bobby's doorstep, not looking at anything in particular. If she didn't know him better, she'd think him some kind of homeless, derelict drunk, purposeless, directionless, ruined. He is not any of these things—yet.

She knows from experience that people become what they repeatedly do. Dean may not be ruined yet, but he's heading in that direction.

Her stomach flops over itself again, and Mary is getting sick of this. She hasn't gone violent and killed anyone yet, but she's also still stuck close to Dean in a way that makes her uncomfortable—like she's responsible for keeping watch over him. She also notices, in a way that's becoming less detached and more tangible, almost physical, that Dean's drinking is affecting her. Her vision swims for a second, and she has to flash back and forth for a few seconds to get clarity back.

Shit. She's becoming just like Dean—or maybe they were the same all along.

_There's no one else._

Sam's been so focused on Jessica and the baby that he hasn't noticed Dean's quiet meltdown. John might not have noticed even if he'd been here. She is here, as she has been for the better part of his life, watching him slowly kill himself to save other people.

She's his mother. Yeah, she's dead, but she's still responsible.

"I can't stand this," Mary says, indignant and angry more than sympathetic at this point, head still somewhat foggy. "You are _pathetic_ and it has to stop." She pitches her voice to carry, though she's not entirely sure she is visible.

"Mom?" Dean asks. So he hears her, then; that's good. She holds absolutely still, body held straight and tight to prevent any accidental outburst, right in front of him. Dean's eyes are wide as saucers, growing rounder; she must be coming into view. "Mom?"

"Dean." She softens a little bit as he focuses on her, not wanting to come off as too much like an evil spirit—even if she sometimes feels that way, lately. A tear falls from Dean's face to the ground and she reaches up impatiently to brush it away. Her fingers, predictably, move through him, leaving the tear-streak across his cheek untrammeled, untouched.

She has never been permitted to comfort him, not in death; she can't seem to ever do anything but sacrifice herself to save him. Perhaps that's why she's stuck this way: there's nothing for her to sacrifice herself to, anymore, with Lucifer dead.

Or maybe—maybe there's a better answer than sacrifice.

People are what they do, but it's never too late to break a pattern.

"Get up," she says. "And put that away," she adds, pointing to the bottle.

Dean rises immediately, leaving the bottle open on the ground. "Where are we going?"

"To see Bobby." She doesn't say, _To see Castiel._ Based on his behavior this morning, and for the past few weeks, she's not sure Dean's resolved to go after him anymore. But someone has to—and Bobby won't be able to pry him away from his people; not if Castiel's decided to stay.

It's a little-known fact that the Miltons have a country home to the north of Lawrence, in addition to the ones in town and in the woods, though the last had burned down. The country home serves as a place of meditation and prayer for the family—at least, that's how the story goes. Mary had been to that house exactly once before this, and she knows better.

The country home is little-known because the family only visits to administer punishments—or hide recreant priests; the kind that molest children and take multiple wives or cheat or gamble themselves into infamy. The Miltons never cared about corruption; their care is only for the appearance and perception of piety.

Mary had come there with Michael, once, to free Castiel from a torture session that had left flesh flayed from his ribs and spine. Even then, she'd noticed other scars beneath the new damage. Somehow, despite his physical state, Castiel had been able to walk out of there unassisted, and she doesn't think he's been back since.

Still, when Dean had failed to find any trace of him to the south, he must have gone somewhere—and where else could he go? There is no other home for him. He might have been hoping that the house had been left empty, so he could move in and live undisturbed by the remnants of his family. If she's lucky, that's what Bobby will find—but she's never been that lucky.

"You know where Bobby is?" Dean asks after a long moment of gaping fish-mouthed at her.

"Yes."

"How?"

"There's only one place he could be." Bobby knows about the house as well as she does; he'd been with her and Michael on the rescue mission. His map is marked with the place, tag still sticking out of it. She stands up straight, non-consuming flames whirling along the hem of her skirt. "C'mon."

Now that her resolve has been set, it's fairly easy to stay visible. She guides Dean, quickly at first, then slowly; she can't speed him up. She is about to stop and turn and ask him what the trouble is when he says, "I know where we're going. There's no way in."

Of course, Dean is familiar with the woods around Lawrence—he has likely been outside this place before. She remembers the iron gate around the property and nods. "Usually that's true, but Bobby's in there." Castiel is in there, even if Bobby isn't. "He'll let us in."

Dean picks up the pace then, letting Mary guide him as fast as she wants. As they approach, Bobby slams the gate shut behind him, rubbing his hands together as if trying to clean something off his fingers. He catches sight of Dean and freezes, blue eyes closing off and clamping down on any emotion that might show. "Shit," Bobby drawls. "Turn around, Dean."

Dean digs his heels into the soft ground. Raindrops mark his shirt in patterns like tiny fingerprints. There's a moldered hunk of rock in front of him to the right of the gate. Faint words are carved into it in all capital letters: MILTON MANOR. The words make his eyes widen in recognition, and he turns back to Bobby. "No."

"He wants to stay here, Dean," Bobby says, shaking his head back and forth. "Something I learned as a kid: they don't always thank you for savin' em."

"Save him from what?" Dean asks. "What the fuck, Bobby. How long have you known he's here?"

"Since the first night, idjit," Bobby says. "Otherwise I'd've been out in those damn woods looking with you."

Dean's shoulders tense, and Mary can tell he wants to ask her the same question, but he doesn't want Bobby to hear.

Suddenly, Bobby steps out of his way, leaving the path to the gate clear. "You don't understand what this place is," Bobby says. "This is their home turf, son. Where they go to hole up and hide. No one wants you here."

Dean title his chin up. "You got in. Maybe I can, too."

Bobby snorts. "Sure. Maybe Mr. Milton will let you in," Bobby says, spitting out the name like a curse or a reprimand. "I doubt it. Don't say I didn't warn ya."

His footsteps make squelching sounds in the mud as he walks down the path, away from Dean.

Dean approaches the gate apprehensively, shoulders tight, making sure Mary's behind him. He peers through the poles of the gate as if they are prison bars and catches sight of a dark figure in the middle distance, almost blending into the garden's ill-tended topiaries. "Hey!" he yells, and the figure halts in place but doesn't turn.

Mary attempts to flash to the other side of the gate, but it's no good; the gate is iron and sealed tight, and the walls around the estate are stone coated in rock salt; there's no way in for her unless the gate opens.

A fat drop of rain hits Dean on the forehead, and he shivers. "Hey!" he calls again. "Let me in! It's raining!" Good news for Mary; the rain might make a gap in the salt perimeter… if she can wait long enough.

It turns out that she doesn't have to. The dark figure turns, hood drawn up over their face, hiding it. The figure keeps their head down as they walk to the gate, unlock it, and allow Dean to step through. Mary follows, of course, though she chooses invisibility; she doesn't want any Milton but Castiel to see her.

"Cas?" Dean asks, reaching out to push the figure's hood off.

It's not Cas. It's a woman—demure, mousy, and pale, with the unsteady glittery eyes of a fanatic. She nods gravely, closing her eyes as rain settles on her dark hair. "You wish to see brother Castiel," she says. "Follow me."

She takes her time walking, finding the wall of the house in easy stages, and by the time the eaves of the house provide some shelter Dean is full-body shivering and wet to the bone. Mary holds her hands out to the rain, but feels nothing but the dim echo of cold air along her skin. The living world does not affect her any longer—except through Dean. She wants to tell him he should have worn a coat. Some things about motherhood don't seem to change.

Dean turns toward the door to the house when he spots it, but the woman doesn't head that way; she strikes out away from the wall toward a straw-thatched hut that looks a little like a stable, if only it weren't so small.

When they reach the hut, the woman stops and turns. "He's in there. If he does not offer you hospitality, ask for Naomi at the house." She bows a little, stiffly from the waist, then pushes past Dean. She passes through Mary as she goes, and Mary can feel the clamminess of her physical skin, her rigid self-righteousness that she wears as heavily as her cloak.

Castiel has landed back in with his family, and his family are religious fanatics. They frighten Mary about as much as demons do—but Dean was always going to come anyway. She had, when she'd found out where his mother had taken him, years ago.

Dean knocks on the door of the hut. There's no answer. He knocks again, more insistent this time. Mary hears the clear complaint of, "Go away, Mr. Singer," as if there was no door in the way at all. The walls of the hut must be thin as paper.

"Not Bobby," Dean answers. "Dean."

"Dean?"

There's a long silence, and Mary watches water sluice over the back of Dean's neck as he shakes and tries to hold himself still. The door opens, revealing Castiel in another hooded garment. One hand removes the hood carelessly, revealing a half-swollen face streaked with mud.

Dean looks him over in shock, taking in his swollen, battered feet, filth on his hands and covering his clothes. Both his hands and feet are oozing blood and pus, and the wound on his face has only just closed over; the green around the edges of the injury indicate that it's infected.

His eyes are the only clear, clean thing that remains.

Abruptly, as if he doesn't need to think about it, Dean jerks Castiel harshly forward, outside, into the rain. Castiel resists, but his feet are weak like rubber; he pitches forward into Dean's arms into something of an impromptu hug.

They stand there for a few moments in the rain, pressed together. Water wipes some of the grime from Castiel's face. He disentangles himself from Dean's hold carefully, pressing his hands and face up to the water, breathing deeply.

 _Good,_ Mary thinks. _This is good._

Dean makes an exaggerated sniffing noise. "No offense, Cas, but when was the last time you had a bath?"

"Uh," Castiel says, eyes unfocused; he's staring at the sky. "Don't know. Lucifer had me, then."

His misfocus and casual tone suggest to that he's either been drugged, sleep-deprived or both. "Okay, we're taking a bath," he says. "Come with me."

 

***

 

Castiel seems to be entranced by the rain. Dean has to take him by the hand, like a child, to a pond that Dean must remember from the last time he'd been this way. It's walled off, of course, but the wall is only waist-high and no challenge for him. Hoisting Castiel proves a greater issue, but he manages, and Castiel falls in the mud on the other side with a soft plop.

Dean dumps him, clothes and all, into the pond, then follows him in, rubbing his arms when it looks like he might go into shock from cold. They don't speak, and Castiel seems to only vaguely be aware of where he is, what he's doing. When he closes his eyes for too long, Dean says, "You need to stay awake," and his eyes snap open as if he's received an order. Otherwise, he doesn't acknowledge anything that happens to him.

They're only in the pond a few minutes—the rain is becoming more sleet than liquid—and then Dean drags them out, sprinting for the wall before he remembers that Castiel isn't—can't?—move quickly. He half-drags him back to the hut; by the time they get there, even Dean's fingers are blue around the edges. From him, Mary receives a sense of cold so severe that she almost feels it, like a memory of winter.

Inside the shelter, there's a fireplace and wood, but no fire. Dean shucks his clothes all in one go, unselfconscious, and drags out one of the old cotton blankets from his hiking pack, which he'd thought to drop on the doorstep before leaving for the pond. He settles the dry blanket around his shoulders with a huff like he's freezing, then chucks another blanket over to where Castiel stands by the door. This done, he begins the work of starting a fire with slightly wet materials and inadequate kindling.

Building the fire takes a long time. At least, it seems to, to Mary. Dean curses and makes half a dozen attempts before anything lights—and another four tries before the light catches something larger than dried grass and twigs.

When the first split log takes, Dean settles back on his heels and rubs his hands together gratefully, blanket slipping back a little over his shoulders. Then he turns to Castiel, who is still standing upright, clothed and wet, blanket untouched.

Dean curses under his breath and takes Castiel's hand again. He allows himself to be led—he's aware of that much, at least—but he remains passive as Dean undresses him and uses the second blanket to get him dry.

Once Castiel is wrapped in the blanket, Dean settles them both next to the fire, then stands to retrieve his pack. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

The unfocused aspect to Castiel's gaze is back. He doesn't answer.

Mary kneels before Castiel, passing a hand through his head to get some reading on his physical state, but his head feels empty, devoid of thought. She's felt this feeling when she's passed through corpses, or the recently dead—light's on, no one's home.

She does not take this as a good sign.

She'd thought Castiel had come here to be punished, or to seek refuge if his family was gone. Now she thinks that he'd come here to die.

Dean shifts into the place she's occupying, making her even more uncomfortable for a few seconds, but then she flashes to the other side of the room and watches Dean shake Castiel's shoulders.

No response.

He snaps his fingers in front of his eyes, runs a hand through his hair.

Nothing.

Watching Dean panic makes Mary panic, but there's not much she can do. Castiel doesn't acknowledge Dean's existence. The glimmer of recognition that had allowed Dean and Bobby to find him has been extinguished, somehow.

Dean moves back a little, surveying Castiel as if looking for a weakness of some kind, a way in. Wordlessly, he reaches for Castiel's hands, taking them in both of his, wincing when he notices the new blood from where he'd scrubbed the green of infection off. "Cas," he says, "I'm thinkin' maybe you can hear me, but you just don't want to be found. I'm here. I found you." He pauses, frowns. "I got no idea why you ran away, but we can talk about that later."

No response.

Dean huffs a breath, and they're sitting so close that the agitated air flutters Castiel's eyelashes, making him blink.

Dean presses his fingers in Castiel's palms and breathes deep. "Cas, I need you to wake up. Be here." A pause. "Please."

Mary doesn't know what's making Castiel catatonic, and she's not sure she'd know what to do even if she did. The fact that Castiel is alive is good, but if Dean can't reach him—if they're too late—

Shit. Maybe Bobby was right. He usually was.

_They don't always thank you for saving them._

Castiel is grateful by nature, grateful even for the thin and brittle love/hate his mother had granted him over the years. If he can be reached, he will be thankful for it.

The trick is in reaching him.

"C'mon, Cas, don't do this," Dean says. "Don't—shut off, like this. Come back. I need you to wake up," he says again. There's water at the edges of his eyes that Mary's pretty sure didn't come from outside, and she swallows something heavy that rises in her throat. She doesn't want to see this. She wants to skip to the happy ending where Castiel is fine and living in town and every other Milton is dead or gone.

Unfortunately, she can't.

Dean drops Castiel's hands and pushes his own face into his palms. "Okay, Cas," he says, "I need you." He doesn't—can't?—look at him when he says it.

No response. It's as if he's changed to stone.

"I _need_ you, okay? I need you to be okay, because if you're not, then I _failed._ I failed you and Jo and dad and mom and Sam and Adam and—" He gasps for breath, words losing rhythm. "I need a win, here, man. _I need you."_

He's crying now—two tears down his cheeks, and Mary suppresses the urge to wipe them away.

A moment passes. Two. Three. New tears fall to the already sodden floor.

Then Castiel blinks of his own accord, and his eyes come back into focus. He starts like a skittish horse, scrabbling up and putting his back against the far wall near the door. "Dean?" he asks in a voice so incredulous he sounds insane. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dean holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Looking for you, you moron," Dean says, using one hand to discreetly wipe his face clean. "Why else would I be here?"

Castiel's shoulders slump, but the frenzy is gone from his voice when he asks, "How did you find me?"

Dean scratches the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture. "Uh, mom."

Castiel frowns. "Mary?" When Dean nods, Castiel gives him a hard skeptical stare. "You are aware that your mother is dead?"

"Gone, but not forgotten," Mary says, willing herself to visibility. Castiel's shoulders lock again on seeing her; when he recognizes her ghost form, a figure on fire, he freezes like he's terrified.

She allows herself to dissipate, but Castiel doesn't relax. "Tell her she should have left me alone."

"Tell her yourself, asshole."

Mary chooses to remain silent, because Castiel is speaking and reactive and this is progress.

Dean must be thinking along similar lines, because he rummages through his pack and hands Castiel some day-old bread and dried winter apples. Castiel falls on the food like he's starving, and Dean watches his stores be consumed with an expression of relief.

Mary feels it thrumming through her. Dean will fix this. And if he can't, then she will. Somehow.

As Castiel finishes nibbling the last of Dean's food, Dean clears his throat and asks, "What is this place, anyway?"

Castiel's eyes flick up to the ceiling, where a hole is leaking water from outside. "This place, specifically? An old pen for livestock, I think."

"Funny. What's Milton Manor? I thought that old place in the woods was your family's."

"It is," Castiel says. Then he frowns and corrects, "Was. But this place is older. It's the original house. Once we moved farther from Lawrence, this place was shut—except as a haven for clergy in distress."

"Wait, what?"

Castiel nods. "Mother sheltered itinerant priests here—and practiced some of her more creative arts." The way he says this last part makes Mary sure he doesn't mean needlepoint—unless it was with an extremely large, sharp needle. "Zachariah fled here after the fire. Naomi's been here for years. Bartholomew drops in on occasion. They're family," Castiel says, but the word sounds hollow. "I don't have anyone else."

Dean's cheek muscles tighten at that, but he doesn't say anything. "And Lucifer?"

Castiel nods sharply. "Gone. I'm sure of it."

"How can you be sure?" Dean asks. "Really sure?"

"I can't," he says, "not for certain, but I felt him die. He hasn't been back since, and I—" He shrugs. "I don't think he'd want me even if he could jump back in."

Dean's mouth quirks up in a slight smile. "You're in pretty rotten shape."

Castiel smiles, tentatively, back. "Yeah. I guess I am."

Dean stretches, dislodging part of the blanket around him, and shrugs. "When was the last time you slept?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Yesterday, I think."

"You should sleep," Dean says. "I'll stay up—watch—make sure no one comes for you without warning."

"Thanks." Castiel yawns and stretches out near the fire, asleep in seconds.

Dean falls asleep sitting upright by the fire some hours later. Mary could wake him, but it looks like he could use the sleep—and she's better at keeping watch, anyway.

 

***

 

Dean wakes up before Castiel does and gets dressed in his dried-out clothes. He pulls more stores out of his pack and wakes Castiel for a meal.

"What time is it?" Castiel grumbles.

"Not sure," Dean says. "Before sunrise."

Castiel groans and pulls his blanket over his head. "More sleep. No torture today."

"Wait, what?" Dean asks, and Mary notes the slight inflection of panic in the question.

Castiel mutters something inaudible, then says, "Nothing," and sits up. He notices the food and pounces on it again, sliding close to the fire to eat.

"What are they doing to you here, Cas?"

He shrugs. "Nothing I don't deserve," he says without swallowing.

Dean winces, and Mary shakes her head. "You sleep okay?" Dean asks.

Castiel's head jerks up and down once, shakily. Between bites, without looking at Dean, Castiel ventures awkwardly, "Overnight, I remembered—when Lucifer was around…"

"Look, we don't need to talk about that right now—"

"No, it's important," Castiel insists. "I used to feel him in the amulet, trapped. He's not in there now."

Castiel pulls back his blanket to reveal what Mary hadn't noticed before: Bobby's amulet, dull and lightless, hanging from Castiel's neck. "From what I can tell, Lucifer isn't even sealed in. He's dead." He pulls the amulet over his head and hands it to Dean, as if presenting it for verification.

At the same moment, Mary feels something hook her behind the navel and away, falling into a state like unconsciousness. It terrifies her; she fights with everything she has to break free of it. She understands dimly that the amulet—something she recognizes; something from Michael—has the power to banish spirits, good or evil, including demons. That power of banishment applies to the possessor of the amulet, and Dean had temporarily taken ownership of that amulet from Castiel. That's all this is. As soon as Dean lets go of the amulet, she can return to him like nothing happened.

A few moments later, Mary comes back to herself, relieved. She is positioned comfortably over Dean’s shoulder—and she blinks. And blinks again, stepping back in something like shock.

For one thing, her son is naked--and so is Castiel. Naked--together? She’s scarcely processed the missing clothes, the blankets rumpled half-wet on the floor by the fire, before other details hit her in a wave: the sheen of sweat gleaming on two foreheads, and something unmistakably white and sticky drying on Dean’s stomach, down his thighs.

She must have been gone longer than she thought.

Dean looks enough like Michael that she blushes--as much as a ghost can be said to blush. Castiel’s heart labors hard enough for its efforts to be visible under the skin of his chest, and Mary’s hand moves toward the curved bone that had once guarded her own heart. Castiel’s lips are too big and too red, and she knows exactly what she’s interrupted.

What should she do?

She tries to flash away, to whatever place her consciousness goes when it is not with Dean, but she doesn’t move. Some part of her must feel like Dean needs help--but from what? She can't rescue Dean from Castiel's clutches, like he was a maiden or a virgin—it's absurd.

Mary’s known about Castiel’s proclivities for a long time, but this—the thought of what _this_ is won't settle; it scrambles around in her mind looking for a place to lie down. Dim light from the half-open window passes across half of Castiel's face, making him flinch and jerk harshly away from Dean to pull the ragged curtain shut—which strikes Mary as too little, too late.

The idea that they've been seen by more people than just her is… troubling.

From the doorway, exposed, vulnerable and entirely invisible, Mary watches and assesses. It takes her all of ten seconds to check the perimeter of the building and determine that Dean and Castiel are, effectively, alone. That's a relief; she would rather not round the day out with the murder of witnesses if she can help it—even if those witnesses are the Miltons. The wind picks up as she searches, and she hears sheets of sleet cascading over the building nearest her: a sudden spring storm that had doubtless contributed to Dean and Castiel having private time.

She flashes back to Dean and Castiel, hoping they've had the good sense to get cleaned up and dressed by now—but no. They're sitting against the wall of the hovel, still naked, fire dying, and with the sun coming up Mary sees that Castiel's hands and feet are bleeding a little, like stigmata, and she remembers his mother punishing him that way a long time ago. Very into religious punishments, the Miltons, and Castiel had gotten into trouble a lot; she doesn't ever remember seeing him hale and well.

Dean is holding one of Castiel's mutilated hands in a grip that looks too tight, and Castiel's expression pinches in pain. Dean doesn't look at Castiel; his gaze is fixed to the holes in the ceiling where the sleet's coming through.

"Why did you come here, Cas?" Dean asks.

Castiel shifts a little, trying to free his hand, but Dean won't let go. "I had no other place to go."

"Bullshit." The word has no heat to it, no volume, and Dean's eyes remain firmly on the ice falling from above, determinedly staring everywhere except where Castiel is. "You could have stayed."

"No," Castiel says. Giving up on freeing himself from Dean's grip, he braces himself on his other hand and stares up, along with Dean. "I couldn't." A pause, and the sound of the sleet is deafening. As it comes through the ceiling, it melts into cold water, wetting Castiel's hair through and making him shiver.

Dean looks at Castiel then, free hand coming up to cup his cheek in a gesture that's oddly tender. "Come home," Dean says, the words so quiet Mary scarcely hears them.

"I can't."

"You can." Dean's other hand lets go of Castiel's injured one, and he brushes his thumbs over Castiel's cheekbones as if he is holding something precious. "Come with me."

Mary is frozen to the spot, and for all the compromising positions she's seen her son and old friend in today, this one seems the most private, the most intrusive on her part. When she'd walked in on the aftermath of sex, she had understood that they must have been intimate on some level, obviously—but she has never seen Dean look like this, protective and passionate all at once. Not even for Sam. She has never seen Castiel with all defenses down, laid open hurt and bare.

She has never seen either one of them hurt like this, and she wants to interfere and fix it—

She realizes where she is before she makes herself visible, but from the way Dean is shivering, she knows she's caused a temperature spike. She gets herself under control—barely—and then Dean is kissing Castiel's eyes, and she wants to look away, but she can't.

 So fine, maybe she is fascinated. Who wouldn't be? Two people she thought she knew, and didn't, doing and saying things that were private and real. She watches their bodies slot together in a hug so close there's no space between them, and Castiel clings hard enough to Dean's shoulders to leave marks. They're not kissing so much as breathing one another's air—living out of one another's pockets, crawling inside one another's skin, much as they'd done when Castiel had still been possessed by Lucifer.

Hands move across Dean's back, knotting in muscle, and Dean chokes a little and leans forward, slotting his body between Castiel's half-spread legs. The wall buckles in a bit, shifting with the combined weight of Castiel and Dean against it, and Castiel lands hard with his back on the floor, Dean's hand moving quickly behind his head so that it doesn't slam against the ground.

Dean looks at the caved-in piece of wall, which is now letting in water, and he laughs. It's a pure, clean sound, like the rain, and Castiel smiles when he shifts to survey the damage.

"Oops," Castiel says, rubbing the back of his neck and twining his fingers within Dean's at the back of his head. Dean leans down to kiss him, but the water must be slippery; Castiel loses his grip on Dean's hand and catches himself on the floor as if trying to prevent himself from rolling into the growing puddle. As a result, they wind up knocking noses and flinching instead.

Castiel raises himself up on his elbows slowly. He gasps for air, then seems to stop breathing as Dean leans over him to kiss him again, a light touch of lips. Castiel presses into the kiss hesitantly, then pulls back, pupils blown wide and dark. Then a shaft of sunlight cuts over his eye, and he flinches.

"We can't do this," Castiel stammers, sounding lightheaded.

Dean smirks. "Uh, little late for that."

Mary blushes again. She's going to have to process this, somehow. Maybe after she stops watching it.

"I know," Castiel says, sounding resigned and somewhat pained, "but it's morning. My family will—"

Dean cuts him off with another kiss, quick and firm, and mutters, "Screw your family." Castiel grips his shoulders as if trying to shove him away, but then just winds up—holding on. Dean's hand crawls downward, fingers crawling like the legs of a spider and just as gentle, so that Castiel doesn't react until Dean grabs the head of his cock.

In an oddly intellectual way, Mary had always kind of wondered how two men could have sex together. Now that she's finding out, she's not sure what to think of her intellectual curiosity any longer.

She's standing at a somewhat awkward location for…observation…so she takes a few steps forward and puts herself between them and the window, wary of any movement outside. The kissing sounds deeper, wetter, and she briefly considers putting her fingers in her ears and closing her eyes before deciding that that's too juvenile.

Abruptly, out of breath, Castiel pulls back. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Instead of answering, Dean takes hold of both their cocks and jacks them both at once, slow, and Mary's mouth falls open incredulously because Dean, never quite clear with words, is always clear with actions. It's a trait she recognizes; an inheritance Dean received from her.  

Castiel appears just as shocked, and Dean takes the opportunity to press up close, shifting his legs around Castiel's waist, using his feet against what's left of the wall for leverage to push their joined cocks back and forth in his hand. Castiel's breath stutters, nearly stops; his hands wrap around Dean's shoulders as if he never wants him to let go.

They sit like that, Dean's legs wrapped around Castiel's pelvis and Castiel's arms wrapped tight around his back, for a few minutes, breathing, touching, and it's slow and easy, like recognizing an old friend. Mary flushes pink as something in her protests at watching this, but—

Abruptly, she understands why she's chosen to see this, instead of stopping it or running away. On some very strange and previously undiscovered level, she is glad this is happening. She's happy Dean found someone, and that Castiel has a way out of this hole.

She's glad there's someone else looking out for them both, after all.

When Dean's hips start moving a little faster, the flicker of hesitation in his eyes tells Mary that something is wrong. Dean, with his face buried in Castiel's shoulder, doesn't notice it. The look becomes sharp and panicked; Castiel's hips stutter against Dean's, but it looks like he'd pull away if the wall weren't preventing him from doing so.

Finally, Dean senses that there's something off and stops moving. "What's wrong?"

Castiel gasps and hangs his head. "Stop," he says softly, without conviction, and Dean does, though he looks confused. Dean pulls back, leaving Castiel alone and shivering against the wall, still hard, and Mary's forehead creases in confusion.

"What is it?"

"I told you," Castiel says, "we can't do this. It's—wrong. I can't." Castiel yanks his discarded blanket around himself, huddling beneath it as if he were freezing.

Dean sits back on his heels, then goes utterly still, emanating calm as if soothing a skittish horse. "Cas, we've talked about this."

"I know," Castiel says, but he's not looking at Dean so much as past him, now, the glazed faraway look from before returning to his features.

Dean extends a hand to Castiel's shoulder partway, stopping when Castiel flinches. "I don't know why you think this way, but you're not wrong or sick or whatever—"

Castiel shifts his eyes to the leaking ceiling "Why do you care what I think?" he asks, sounding tired and defeated.

Dean pushes a hand roughly through his hair. "C'mon, don't make me say it. You know why."

Castiel lets out a long, slow breath. "I know why you think you're doing this. I still think it's wrong." He stands up and moves toward the door; Mary identifies the half-sodden hooded robe near it that Castiel stoops to retrieve. The sleet overhead turns to rain, water pounding like tiny fists on the roof; thunder rolls in the distance. "I'm sorry, Dean, but I can't see you again."

Dean blinks slowly in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me."

Dean shakes his head, then starts laughing, a low chuckle that vibrates in the air. "Wow. They really did a number on you." He looks at Castiel, eyes glistering around the edges, and says, "Why the hell do you think I came here, Cas? It wasn't for—this, you know that, right? I mean, not that I—"

"I know," Castiel says, cutting him off, cheeks reddening very slightly, like plague spots. "I—It doesn't mean anything," Castiel says. "No, that's not right. It means I'm sick. I need to atone. It—wasn't real."

Not real. The expression on Dean's face when he processes this statement is so nakedly hurt and confused that for a moment Mary thinks he's broken. _Real._ He mouthed the word, looking like a confused ten-year-old.  

"You should probably stay at the house," Castiel says in a resigned tone. He points to a pile of clothes, staring intently at it so he won't have to look at Dean. "Get dressed."

Something in Mary's chest clenches unexpectedly. Dean's expression becomes unreadable, hard, but the feeling in her chest is like heartbreak.


	44. Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wondered how Gabriel would worm his way in. :)
> 
> Warnings for angels being dicks and Gabriel being Gabriel...

Dean can't get back to Lawrence from Milton Manor before nightfall, and with the rain turning into a snowstorm he's not able to leave. As a result, he's trapped with Castiel and his relatives for dinner. And the dinner—

Well.

The dinner is disastrous.

The Miltons don't talk much, never have, and their favorite topic of conversation these days is Castiel: his chore schedule, his progressive atonement, observations about his hygiene or behavior. However, with a guest present, no one seems to want to speak. The Miltons are very much about appearances, after all, and while insulting family isn't exactly a sin, it makes sense that they don't want to advertise their internal affairs.

The food is sparse—it's the end of winter, after all—and not cooked well, but Castiel scarcely notices because there's a vein pulsing in Naomi's temple and a tightness around Zachariah's mouth that does not bode well for his future self.

God, he has to get Dean out of here.

Castiel feels something cold ghost over his shoulder, like a breeze, but they're indoors and there's a fire directly behind him, so he suspects a spirit. Mary, probably. There's no escaping her or Dean, and with them here it's not possible for him to atone. He's already slipped up, proven ungrateful, proven himself to be wrong.

It's Naomi that finally breaks the tense silence. "Brother Castiel, you neglected the animals last night."

Castiel bows his head in acknowledgment. "I did. I apologize. I had a fever. It won't happen again."

Dean's shoulders tense; it looks like he wants to say something, but he catches Castiel's eye and thinks the better of it. He chews the day-old bread and tough meat grimly, uncomplaining, but the tightness around his mouth and the way he keeps his eyes on the floor communicate his discomfort clearly enough for everyone to understand.

"You also neglected to bring in water," Zachariah says with distaste. "I had to do it, and you know my health is poor."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says automatically. He's already explained his illness; he has no more excuses to give.

"Say," Dean says around a mouthful of food, "place this big, there should be more servants around, right? Not just Cas?"

Naomi and Zachariah blink at one another in astonishment at hearing the nickname. Flustered, Naomi answers, "No, we had to dismiss them. With holdings in the forest—razed—we couldn't stay in town, and this place—well, we've been trying to maintain it, but it's hard with just the four of us, isn't it, Castiel?"

Castiel nods shakily. His stomach growls like a wild thing, clenching around itself, but he doesn't want to eat; he feels like he might throw up again.

"So, all of you, then?" Dean asks, and the question is anything but casual. "You all work to keep this place up?"

Naomi sniffs. "Of course."

Bartholomew has the basic decency to appear ashamed; Zachariah has some trouble meeting Dean's accusatory stare.

Dean sets his food down grimly. "Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were working Cas half to death." He turns to face Castiel head-on; the concentrated focus of his attention makes Castiel flinch, but he doesn't turn away. "Is that true?"

Castiel doesn't answer; he does not even shake his head. He knows that is all he would need to do to get Dean to save him from this, but he's already decided that he doesn't deserve to be saved.

Zachariah snorts. " _We're_ not doing anything," he says. "He does it to himself."

"And you let him." Dean's words are quiet, level, but there's a rage underneath them that Castiel has only heard once before, after Dean found out how Jo died. "You're _letting_ him kill himself." He shifts his shoulders toward Zachariah. "He's your _family_."

"No," Zachariah says. "Abominations and hellspawn don't count." He coughs into his hand.

Then Dean's up and moving, and Zachariah's getting up, stepping away. Castiel stands, says, "Stop!" with as much conviction as he can muster, but neither man heeds him and he won't be fast enough to stop Dean—

Sudden shivering shakes Castiel from head to heel, making him suspect the return of Mary's spirit. When he turns to investigate the cause of the cold, he finds the doors to the hall open, ordinary wind gusting in behind a sodden figure in black.

Dean has cornered Zachariah, and Zachariah's hands have come up to Dean's shoulders to push him back; one of his lips is split open. When the wind hits them, they both start; Zachariah freezes with his grip in Dean's shirt, clearly recognizing the visitor. "You, here? But I thought—"

The dark figure chuckles, a light, happy sound, and tears back his soaked hood to reveal a slight man with curl-damp reddish hair, an aquiline nose, and unsteady watery eyes overflowing with mirth. He isn't smiling, but it looks like he could start any second, and the look that passes between him and Zachariah is charged with something like affection. "Zachariah, my brother! You haven't changed at all." He flicks his gaze around the room, then adds, "no need to bring out the welcome wagon on my account." He takes a few steps forward, then takes a seat near Castiel, crossing himself before settling down.

Naomi's lips purse tightly, and Bartholomew shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Dean takes a step back from Zachariah and says, "I'm sorry, who are you?"

The man—perhaps a priest?—bumping shoulders with Castiel spares Dean a bored glance. "Oh, a visitor," he says, squinting. Then the corners of his mouth twitch up, and he says, "Winchester, are you?"

Dean looks briefly taken aback. "Do I know you?"

"Probably not," the man says. "I knew your father, I think. Must have been. Looked _just_ like you." Castiel glances surreptitiously at the man next to him, mentally calculating the years from his face, but he can't identify him; he must have lived in Lawrence when Castiel was young—well, younger.

The guest reaches for a crust of stale bread with one hand and rakes his hand through unruly hair with the other. "I'm a Milton, obviously. Gabriel—though the outside world knows me as Father Gabriel." He takes a bite of the bread and spits it out. "Oh, shit, this is not food."

Naomi and Zachariah flinch at the profanity and the insult; Bartholomew sits back in his chair with the little frown. Now that he's said his name, Castiel remembers a Gabriel—Gabe—about ten years old, on his father's side of the family. This man appears to be the right age, and of the right temperament; his father's family had generally been less rigid than his mother's. They'd never met before, but Castiel feels better about placing him.

Castiel feels Gabriel shift on the bench uncomfortably close to him, revealing two deep leather pockets inset on the outside of his pants. From these, he retrieves a bottle of wine and half a loaf of white bread that looks considerably fresher than what they've been eating.

Gabriel passes the bread around, but (notably) keeps the drink for himself. When he moves to pass the bread to Castiel, Naomi makes the sign of the cross and snatches it away from him.

"A priest must not break bread with demons," she spits. "It's unholy."

"Demon, huh?" Gabriel raises an eyebrow, then looses a reliquary from a chain around his neck. He splashes water on Castiel's face, and Castiel blinks, stunned. "Pretty sure this one's all human," he says. "That was holy water." He offers a larger-than-normal hunk of bread to Castiel, and Castiel accepts it without eating it, staring at the gift.

Naomi in particular appears appalled.

Dean gives Castiel _what the hell is wrong with you_ eyes, a little angry, a little concerned. Like the bread, Castiel doesn't feel he deserves either anger or concern, but he can't talk to Dean here. Too risky.

When Gabriel insists that he eat, he nurses the bread bite by bite, remembering what happened the last time he ate too much with the aftertaste of bile in his throat. "What's your name, not-demon?"

He glances at Zachariah to make sure answering is allowed. When Zacharia nods, he says, "Castiel. Castiel Milton."

Gabriel does a sort of double take, and then his smile gets wider. "So you're the famous Castiel," Father Gabriel says, eyes glinting delight. "I've heard so much about you. I gotta say, though, the rags-and-filth look doesn't really fit with the hype."

Castiel tilts his head to one side in confusion. "I don't know what you've heard about me," Castiel says, "but I think you've been misinformed."

"That's enough, Castiel," Naomi hisses, and he falls silent. The entire table does; it's like a pall has been thrown over the table. Even Dean doesn't speak.

When dinner is over, Castiel hangs back to clear plates. Dean stays with him until Bartholomew insists that guests don't do chores and drags him out, leaving Castiel alone with Father Gabriel, who hasn't moved from his bench since he arrived.

Castiel feels the man's eyes on him as if they're boring a hole through the back of his head. He pauses while stacking plates to ask, "Can I help you with something, Father?"

Gabriel chuckles. "Call me Gabe, like when I was little."

His forehead creases in a frown. "I'm sorry, have we met before?" He's sure his memory wouldn't be faulty on that point.

"No," Gabriel says, "but you wrote a letter after getting the birth announcement."

"And you read it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "In case you didn't notice, I'm about as much as a black sheep as you," he says. "I was—interested—in you. Good guy gone dark. And now back to the light, it seems."

Castiel surveys his neat stack of plates with a critical eye, not looking at Gabriel. "I don't know about that," he says, lifting the plates to a serving cart. "How can you be a black sheep when you're a priest?"

Gabriel laughs—not just a chuckle but all-out gut-busting laughter—and Castiel is so stunned that he stares; he can't help it. "I'm a traveling priest," he manages through peals of laughter, "but not a missionary. I preach and heal and bring help to those who need it, the way Christians are supposed to. But I don't have a church or money or land of my own, and I don't want or need any. The family can't disown me, but they don't like me."

"Like me," Castiel says as he turns to arrange two dirty cups on the cart.

"Exactly," he says. "Now, sit. I have more food, and you should eat."

Castiel sits, automatically compliant after weeks of orders, but he says, "I'm not hungry."

"Hey now," the Father says, patting Castiel's shoulder in what is almost a gesture of affection. "Don't bullshit me." Castiel looks stunned for a moment, and the Father continues, "I won't tell the others about any of this. You don't have to be scared of me."

"I'm not scared," Castiel insists, hating how petulant he sounds.

"Uh-huh," he says, sarcastically disbelieving. "I want to help you, kid. Is that so unbelievable?"

"Yes," Castiel says, and nearly chuckles himself at being called _kid_. "I'm sick. Wrong. Twisted." Corrupt.

"Nah," Gabriel says after a brief hesitation, and Castiel's eyes widen.

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused. _Te absolvo_ ," he says, mock serious, and the smile that's always threatening the corners of his mouth breaks into a full-on grin. Then he presses another loaf of bread into Castiel's hands as if delivering years' worth of the sacrament of Communion in one go.

Castiel doesn't eat, but he clings to the bread, leaving finger-shaped indentations as Gabriel goes on, "I've heard a bit about the 'sins' the family is punishing you for. Not sure why they bother—did you know Jesus never said one damn thing about men who love other men? Or women who love other women?"

Castiel knows—he's read enough of the Bible to know—but it seems strange, hearing this from a priest.

"I don't think of that as sin," he says with conviction. "And news on the grapevine is that you toasted Lucifer nice and crispy."

Castiel blinks, unsure of how to react to the man comparing Lucifer to literal meat. "I—did. With—Dean. And his family. I had help."

Gabriel inclines his head in recognition of the fact, but says, "Bullshit. You're _Castiel._ Ridden by a demon for two decades—and not just any demon, the prince of Hell himself. And you did that _alone_. And managed to hold him still long enough for the hunters to get him, after all that time. Managed to stay _human_ that long." He pauses, making sure Castiel is looking at him before he says, "And you don't think that's brave? Incredible? Heroic, even?"

"No," he says. _I'm wrong._ _I have to be._

If he is not as flawed as he's been brought up to believe, then the chains his family have put on him are no different than Lucifer's—a compulsion brought on by an outside force for no real transgression.

Except, no—they're actually worse. He'd taken Lucifer on of his own free will, to save his friends, and Lucifer had never had any compulsion to care for him or help him. Despite that, Lucifer had taken better care of him over the past twenty years than his family had over the past twenty days.

"You're wrong, then. _They're_ wrong—about you, I mean," Father Gabriel says with a wry grin. "Well, not—Dean, was it? Though I imagine he's pissed right now. That one gets it." Gabriel rummages beneath the desk, pulling up a small leather sack full of—were those peanuts, or almonds? He eats a few, then offers a handful to Castiel.

Castiel accepts hesitantly, setting the bread aside, and says, "He gets—what?"

"Oh," Gabriel says, mouth full. He swallows. "I mean he accepts who he is—what he is. Unlike you." Castiel looks down, and Gabriel's hand shoots out to his shoulder, causing him to look up. "He saved you."

Castiel nods.

"You saved him—from Lucifer, I'm guessing."

Another cautious nod. Part of him wishes Gabriel made less sense. It's hard for him to hold on to self-loathing in the face of a priest's— _this_ priest's—compassion. For the first time since he'd become fully human again, he remembers his pride. Well—not pride. Dignity, perhaps. A desire to be treated as a person rather than a slave. Samandriel had tried to awaken that, and failed—Naomi had punished them both too thoroughly for dignity to be a consideration.

"All right then," Gabriel says in a tone of finality. "I'm getting you out of here."

"You know," Castiel says, because this is bothering him and he can't wrap his head around the idea of escape right now, "you—don't talk like a priest."

Gabriel's thumb moves to his dimple, and the gesture makes his perpetual smile seem wider. "You're not the first person to tell me that…"

 

***

 

Gabriel leaves him a little after that, and Castiel is free to clean up the dinner dishes and air out the rooms for the evening. He manages to avoid Dean by waiting for him to leave his room—searching for him, no doubt—and slip in behind, unobtrusive, quick. Though Dean had put much on the line sticking up for him in front of his family, it's one of the things he feels he doesn't deserve, and he's not ready to talk about it. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

When he arrives in Gabriel's room, he finds rain lashing the windows and lightning cutting the semi-darkness, and realizes it is time to start a fire. He does, efficiently and well, then uses a taper to light the half-dozen or so candles in the room. He draws the curtains against the cold and prepares to leave. Gabriel isn't back yet, and his eyes stray to the priest's possessions.

The trestle table near the fireplace, usually clear and immaculate, looks like something of a disaster area. There's food—truly an alarming amount of it, considering the man hadn't carried a pack—scrolls, ink, paper. Quills in various states, some obviously chewed upon. Charcoal sticks for writing.

Or—drawing. Castiel's hands twitch at the proximity of the clean white paper. For the first time in a long time, he wants to make something.

Gabriel isn't back yet, and the trestle table is near the door; he'll be able to hear someone come in. Helping himself to a blank sheet of paper and two charcoal sticks, he kneels down on the floor and presses charcoal to paper, smearing lines, smudging shadows making his hands gloriously filthy as he shapes his image. It's rough work; just a sketch, really, and the tremor of his hands mean the shading is imperfect, shaky, like the course of his life. Still, as he takes a step back to analyze the image's composition, something in him snaps into place.

He's a painter. He used to trap images and freeze them for himself as a way of dealing with his internal prison, but this image is not that. It's not a picture of himself at this moment, but of himself at all times: an aorist Castiel, existing in all places, at all times, as himself. It hurts to create something so honest, and the charcoal makes many errant marks that he can't smooth, but he doesn't stop. The eyes, though grayscale, cut through him like shards of hail, accusatory but also strangely forgiving, open and free. Hesitantly, he reaches out with the charcoal and builds two huge wings out of his own shoulders, realizing only as he does it that the portrait had been missing them.

His wings may be physically gone, but they have been subsumed into his consciousness; flight is often conflated with both freedom and the divine, and even Lucifer had been an angel once. The aorist Castiel has wings, because Castiel himself had possessed them. In a way, he still does.

He's so absorbed in his task that he fails to hear Father Gabriel return to his rooms. He doesn't notice the other man until he hears, shockingly loud against the steady beat of rain, "Nice work."

Castiel nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the charcoal as he turns toward the door.

Father Gabriel puts his hand to his chin and surveys the picture. "I knew you were an artist, but I never saw your stuff before. It's good."

Castiel nods. "Thank you."

Gabriel approaches and runs a finger gently over the edges of the image's wings. "Hell, that's cool. I had no idea demons could fly."

 "Lucifer was an angel," Castiel says.

"Yes," Gabriel says. "He was." He spends a moment in quiet introspection, his expression far more serious than it's been up to now. Then he smiles again, like darkness lifting, and he says, "I take it you've decided to accept yourself?"

"Not exactly," Castiel says. There's a lot about himself that he still needs to unpack, analyze, understand. But for now, he is content to be who he is: the sum total of his experience. It's not as if he can choose to be anything else. "But I'll take you up on your offer."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Yes," he says firmly. "But you have to get Dean out, too."

"Duh, of course," he says. Then he picks up one of the more woebegone quills and unstoppers an ink jar. "That's settled, then," he mutters at the page as he begins to write. "I'll send a message along to Samandriel to have him pick us up at the gate?"

"Samandriel?"

"You putz," Father Gabriel says with a smile. "Who do you think sent me to find you?"


	45. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, sorry about that delay...between the new job, getting sick, mom getting sick, and having another depressive attack, it's been hard for me to finish this one up. But I think about it every day and have been pushing through it, steadily. The last chapter is about half-written and is much shorter than this one.

Mary had done her best to remain unobtrusive during the scene at dinner. She knows Castiel felt her—and, surprisingly, the visiting priest had, as well. Before he'd even entered, he'd called her out of the hall with an obnoxious spell, yanking her to the edge of her effective range—to the edge of where she could still feel Dean's presence as if she were attached to him by wires. Poking, painful wires.

Rain and wind lashes at the man's cloak and hands, but she'd recognize spellwork anywhere. "Witch!" she spits, and tries to flash away, but she is held in place. She places two flame-licked hands on her hips and surveys him with open contempt. Most witches make deals with demons.

"Good guess," the man says, laughing. His lips are turning blue; the storm's picking up intensity. "I'm a white witch. I need your help."

Another white witch. She hasn't seen another one since Sam (an inheritance from Michael, no doubt), and she knows how rare they are. Some people don't even think they exist. She knows better, but she has no way to test this wet inconsiderate man who's yanked her away from Dean when he needs her.

Speaking of needs. "What, mine?" she grins at him, almost laughs, and shakes her head. "Get yourself another ghost."

"I tried, but there weren't any available," he says, surprisingly serious. It's not a good look on him: his face becomes pinched and sad, and for a moment she sees a hint of Milton family resemblance. "My meddling cousin keeps blessing the grounds. So it has to be you."

He talks with his hands, his robe shifting over his shoulders, revealing a heavy metal cross. A priest. Huh. Well, a dark witch wouldn't be able to put that against their skin without damage. It's possible he's telling the truth—or he's an ordinary man with delusions of grandeur. She folds her fiery hands over her stomach and asks, "Why should I help you?"

"Because," he says, looking her directly in the eye, "I can set you free."

_Free?_

"You've felt it, haven’t you?" he asks before she can answer; she is too stunned to answer. "The pain at being away from your anchor. Rage. Losing time. Losing control. You know what that means."

"You mean—"

"You're a vengeful spirit," he says. "And I doubt you want to turn on your loved ones. So, here's the plan. You help me, and I help you. Deal?"

She frowns, considering. She's never heard of a witch being able to put ghosts to rest; he might be making it up. "All right," she says, tentative, "but you have to do something else for me."

The man rolls his eyes, drenched from head to toe. The wind pulls shiny hair over his forehead, into his eyes. "What?"

"Help my son."

"Ah," he says. "I think I understand. I had to—to put down what was left of Lucifer."

She blanches. "I wasn't aware there was anything left."

"A bit of his grace fled my cousin's body when the bullet went through. Not much—"

But enough. Anything was enough. Mary flashes in and out, steadying herself as if she were blinking her eyes. She doesn't understand why evil has to be so hard to kill.

The priest is saying, "…but my cousin's here with your son and my bitter relatives. I need your help getting him out. In exchange, I'll help you and your son."

She crosses her arms. "What kind of help?"

***

It turns out that Father Gabriel's tasks aren't nearly as onerous as she'd been anticipating: he needs her, primarily, to run messages between himself and a boy called Samandriel, who seems well-meaning but haunted in the same way Castiel is. She is also set to investigate an old escape tunnel in the disused wine cellar that Castiel's father had installed in case of needing to smuggle priests—or heretics—out to Lawrence, or back. The tunnel opens out at the house in Lawrence, boarded up behind a locked door but still standing, and aside from a few muddy places the tunnel is in good repair. She reports as much to Gabriel, then is dismissed to wait for a signal with Dean.

By the time she checks on Dean, he's produced a bottle from somewhere, drunk most of it and fallen asleep—or passed out, more likely. His dreams are fitful things that she tries to soothe, but it doesn't seem like she's getting through. She finds Castiel nearby, drawing something—a portrait?—with an expression of intense concentration. She tries to appear to ask him to check on Dean, but she's been taxed too much today already; she can barely make the curtains move, much less appear solid.

Satisfied that she's upheld her part of the bargain, she settles herself at the foot of Dean's bed and waits until he wakes up. Drunken sleep makes him restless, and a thunderclap has him bolting upright before much more than an hour has passed. The fire breathes out angrily at the influx of cold air, and Dean flinches back from the light, stunned. He rubs his eyes.

Mary feels herself hooked like a fish on a line—again; it's getting annoying—and Father Gabriel's face swims before her vision, swathed in shadow. "We're ready," he whispers. "I'll get Castiel. You grab Dean. He won't want to wait for us—keep him in the tunnel as long as you can."

"Right." She flashes away from him instantly, back to Dean, who has stretched out in bed with his eyes open, tracking patterns of lightning across the cracked irregular ceiling. She tries to make herself visible, but she was already overextended before Gabriel summoned her. With a harrumph, she settles down next to him, grabs his hand and wills him to hear her.

"Come with me," she says. "It's time to go."

Dean blinks and sits up, rubbing his hands together like they're cold. "Mom?"

"It's me," she says. "We need to go."

He nods wearily. "Tomorrow."

"Now," she insists.

He frowns. "Why?"

"Father Gabriel is afraid of what the Miltons might do." A half-truth; they likely won't harm Dean, but Castiel is another matter. Even Father Gabriel might fall under their wrath if he's not careful. She doesn't want to think about why Samandriel had seemed so terrified of being found outside the house.

Instantly, Dean's muscles tense tight, going into threat mode. He stands, crosses the room without making a sound and puts his ear against the doorframe, listening. There isn't much to hear over the rain—Mary reflects that the rain is a lucky thing; it'll cover noise and, possibly, their trail when the Miltons discover them gone tomorrow.

Mary knows there's no one on the other side of the door, but she waits for Dean to reassure himself. She exits the room ahead of him. He leaves the door open, unwilling to close it and cause a sound that might rouse a sleeping Milton.

Mary stays a little ahead of Dean, scanning the halls for movement, light. She sees the flickering of a flame up ahead and grabs Dean's arm tight, yanking him off-balance into an alcove. He gets the idea and braces himself soundlessly; she sees his eyes focus in the direction of the light.

Leaving him crouching in the alcove, Mary moves to the hall to investigate. It's the woman from dinner—Naomi?—and she appears exhausted, spent. Probably on her way back to her room, then.

Only, no. She takes note of Dean's open door curiously. As she approaches the door, Mary swipes both hands over the knob of her neck where it meets the shoulders, and she falls. There is a soft thump as she crumples to the ground.

Dean's eyes flick from Mary to Naomi. "Did you need to do that?" he whispers.

No, she hadn't. But it had felt good. And it meant Naomi wouldn't be able to interfere with the escape. Even when she woke up, she wouldn't have any clear idea of where Dean and Castiel had gone.

It's also indicative of vengeful spirit behavior, but she ignores that. She feels better—stronger—for doing it. If she's a vengeful spirit, she'd become one for Dean's sake. Protecting him sustains her.

They walk along the corridor, Dean moving light on the balls of his feet, bobbing and weaving between alcoves, trying to keep his head and eyes below the eye level of anyone else who might be prowling the house at this hour. The only ones they need to worry about now are Zachariah and Bartholomew; with any luck, they'll stay in their rooms until morning.

Luck's just not on their side. A little before the turn that leads to the hidden corridor out of the house, Mary catches a glimpse of movement. She warns Dean so that only he can hear her, and he drops to the floor silently, planting himself facedown and acting like part of the hallway rug.

Bartholomew seems to notice movement—his eyes flick in their direction once, causing Mary to panic briefly; enough to cause a cold spot—but he doesn't move to investigate. Still, he's standing exactly where they need to go—almost like he'd been warned about the escape plan. Maybe he had been, somehow?

Dean lets out a quick, sharp breath like he's been suckered in the gut. When Mary stoops to investigate—how the hell can you be punched by the floor?—she feels cold so intense it's like she'll shatter into ice at any moment. The sensation gathers along her ribs, stabbing like a broken bone.

Then it's gone.

"What the hell?" Mary hisses.

Dean grunts but doesn't say anything. They have company—and it's getting closer; Bartholomew is either returning to his room—or, more likely, coming to intercept Dean.

But how is that even possible? The cold attack had felt something like a spell, but there's nothing demonic or magical about Bartholomew. She can feel scraps of Michael's magical inheritance around Dean; there is nothing like that surrounding Bartholomew. Had Gabriel betrayed them for some reason?

She watches Bartholomew approach, mouth slack, eyes unfocused. He is sleepwalking directly toward Dean. Before he can so much as kick a toe into Dean's ribs, Mary flashes into him, shoving him backward into the wall of the corridor. There's a thud that sounds too long in the stillness, and Bartholomew crumples like a puppet with its strings cut. He doesn’t make a sound.

Dean gets up. He points one accusatory finger at Mary. "You have rage issues."

"Shut up," she mutters. She guides him to the end of the hall, where there is a perfectly square flagstone in the center of four triangles. Dean steps on it, revealing a hole in the wall so small that if Dean's shoulders were any broader, he wouldn't fit. He rolls his eyes at the hole, then clambers in, making too much noise—what if Zachariah wakes up?

She keeps shushing him, but he ignores her. "If the other one shows up," he says, "sock him good for me."

Mary nods absently, standing guard over the entrance to this tunnel. Dean climbs a little further up until he's almost out of her direct line of sight; there's a scrabbling sound like nails on dirt, and Mary sees his legs. He's managed to stand up—the tunnel expands further in.

"Do the Miltons know this is here?" Dean asks, bewildered.

"Some of them, obviously," she says. Having encountered two Miltons out and about already, she's in no mood to wait around—but Gabriel's not here yet. She can't even sense him nearby.

Dean takes a deep breath and sits down. The darkness of the passage swallows him up, and Mary presses the flagstone to close the door behind him. She pushes herself through the opening and up, keeping Dean visible.

Dean stares at her, looking tired. "What now?"

"Gabriel's coming," she says.

"And?"

"And I said we'd wait for him."

"Uh," Dean says, free hand describing an arc, making a dim shadow on the earthen wall where torchlight flickers in from the edges of the opening to the hall. "Why?"

She could tell him Castiel is coming, too. Maybe she should tell him that. But it's possible—likely, even—that Gabriel won't be able to convince Castiel to flee. And if she tells Dean that he's coming and he fails to show, well—

"He warned us," Mary says, which is true. "We owe him one."

"Fine." Dean yawns. "Can't we owe him after I get a decent night's sleep somewhere else? Why the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?"

"There's a locked door at the end of the tunnel," Mary says. "Gabriel has the key."

"Or I could break down the damn door, which would be faster."

Dean's right. He's making too much sense. She wants out of this place—now, five minutes ago, a _day_ ago.

Then a slice of cold air as thin as a feather knifes between her ribs, pain bisecting the two halves of her spirit body—the same sensation as before, the one she'd felt in the hallway. At the same time, Dean's eyes widen, shoulders pulling tight as he huddles, making himself small—trying to avoid being discovered.

Mary knows better. This sensation isn't caused by a person. It's caused by a _ghost._

And Gabriel had told her there weren't any others available. She'll need to have a chat with him about that—later. "Salt," Mary says. "You have it?"

Dean nods.

"Draw a circle," she says. "Stay inside. And wait for me."

This place is hallowed ground: it's only possible for her to walk here because she's attached to Dean. This other ghost shouldn't be able to persist here—

Unless it's also connected to something—or someone. She discounts cursed objects immediately; she hadn't felt any of them in the house, and she'd been here before, in life, as a hunter. She and Michael had cleared out and burned everything even remotely suspicious then. That leaves the people.

Bartholomew and Naomi are ordinary humans; she'd just knocked them out. But Bartholomew had known about their escape, somehow—had sleepwalked directly into Dean—

She rounds a corner and finds herself in a lighted hallway. Six doors, all shut; two torches, a long rug, and a portrait of someone familiar—Castiel's mother—on the far wall. The torches in the wall brackets flicker, and Naomi seems to come alive in the frame, pouring out of the painting like oil onto the floor.

So Mary and Michael _had_ missed something the last time they'd been here. Crap. Or—more likely—the painting hadn't been haunted yet, when she'd last been here.

Naomi Milton, in life, had been a demure and almost mousy woman. Short, with her hair in a bun and eyes perpetually to the floor, she had tricked everyone into thinking that she was harmless. Until Castiel had inadvertently revealed a few of his scars, Mary hadn't believed Naomi capable of cruelty on a grand scale.

Now, though—

The more Mary thinks about it, the more it makes sense. It explains why Bartholomew knew where to look for them. It explains Castiel's harsh reaction to Dean after they'd joined together—explains seeing Castiel freezing, starving, unresponsive. Oddly guilty, oddly penitent. At the time Mary'd just thought he wanted to be punished; now she thinks that someone else wanted him punished—and who else would want that but his mother?

As she reaches this conclusion, the stab of cold jolts her again, sending her briefly into the immaterial void. When she flashes back, she's confronted with the grim matronly schoolmarm face of Castiel's mother. As soon as Mary sees her, she experiences the same sense of wrongness and terror she'd felt when Castiel had first opened the door of his shack.

Ghost possession.

It's a sick and twisted thing. She'd only seen it a few times as a hunter, and never as a ghost—it's next-level vengeful spirit behavior, using relatives as anchors so that they don't pass on, getting angrier and more violent—but Naomi hadn't killed anyone that Mary knew of. Perhaps she'd just been getting subtler, more insidious—or maybe she's been here, leeching off her family for years.

Waiting for the perfect host.

"How could you," Mary says. It's not a question; it's an accusation meant to shame. "Your own child?"

"It's not a child," Naomi explains patiently, calmly, eyes wide and clear and very like her son's. "It is a demonic vessel. It must be cleansed."

"Uh huh." Mary takes a step back involuntarily. Though Naomi isn't moving, she fills the air with the same icy cutting sensation that Mary had felt before, and she finds it uncomfortable.

It's also easier to get a better look at her from a bit of distance. She doesn't know how to kill a ghost that's using ghost possession to stick around—Dean might not mind her slaughtering most of the Miltons, but she'd pretty sure he'd draw the line at Castiel. Mary would also prefer not to go on a murder spree unless absolutely necessary.

Speaking of murder sprees, Naomi has a violent glint in her eye like the sheen on chips of mica, bright and cold and more than willing for bloodshed. Like all ghosts, Naomi had died with the wounds of her death prominent and focused: chilblained hands, frostbitten feet, breathing an atmospheric stream of frozen vapor.

Frozen to death. It's a death of neglect or willfulness, possibly both, though Mary thinks Naomi had been responsible for her own death, for the most part. Castiel in his worst mood would never have locked his mother outside to die.

Ice moves along the hem of Mary's dress, damping some of the flames there to embers. Mary looks down at her body on fire and nearly laughs. Someone up there has a terrible sense of humor.

Before Naomi takes another step, Mary flashes in right up close to her, focusing all her attention in her fingertips as she does when she wants to touch the living world. She tries to get her hands around Naomi's neck, but they go right through.

Right. Because Naomi _isn't_ living. Get a grip, Mary.

Naomi chuckles nastily, catching Mary's hands in both hers. Mary feels the chill moving up her arms, dousing a flicker of fire that peeks past her shoulder. Without thinking, Mary flashes away, reeling backward in retreat.

She's followed—followed fast, but Naomi isn't quick enough to catch her. She flashes to a corner of the ceiling. What hurts ghosts, again?

Salt. Iron. Of course, anything that causes Naomi harm will hurt her, too.

Naomi catches her around the shoulders, slamming her back through several walls and into something that feels sharp—iron, probably, and she searches for it but she's too addled to focus. Without consciously realizing it, she starts praying to someone, anyone for help—

\--and is staggered when Naomi's ghost appears directly in front of her. She has black wings, gaping wide like the maw of some terrible beast, that definitely were not there before. An angel? "You rang?" the ghost says, unsmiling but sarcastic.

Then Mary sees the black eyes and damn near screams. Can Lucifer not leave her alone, even in death?

"Lucifer?" Mary gasps. "How? Gabriel said—"

Naomi's possessed features grin wide, black wings spreading shadows. "I'm not easy to kill."

Mary flashes out of reach, but not out of the room. Demons and ghosts are similar, really, but there may be something here that will hurt him and not her. She thinks she knows where to find what she's looking for—if she has time.

Time. She needs a distraction. "Is Naomi dead," Mary says, not so much a question as a confirmation of fact.

Lucifer nods. "Whatever that means, around here."

"How long?"

Lucifer cackles like the call of a hungry bird. "How long's she been totally, completely dead? Couple seconds. But if you're asking how long I had her, oh—longer. Much." He adjusts Naomi's limp shoulders, sending the wings out in what looks like a stretch after a long nap.

"A devout person, like her? That should have been impossible." Mary is scarcely listening to herself, saying whatever comes into her head as she searches the room for relics, reliquaries, holy symbols—

Paydirt. There's an altar on the side of the room near where Lucifer is standing, with one of the drawers already half-open. Of course, he's standing in front of it, so it'll be harder to get to—

"You forget," Lucifer says. "I'm an angel. Well, an archangel. Holiest being there is."

She snorts. "Aside from God."

Lucifer flinches at the name of his father, and she uses the moment to flash to the altar. She picks up the first thing to hand—an icon of the Virgin, God dammit—and hurls it at his head as hard as she can.

Surprisingly, it hits; apparently he's solid in some way, or holy relics can touch demons. Good to know. If she can touch it, she can kill it. He full-body shudders and turns to face her, the wings knocking over the altar. Its contents spill to the floor in a cacophony of splintering and shattering, but Mary has no time for that.

She recognizes it as the same amulet that had banished her from Dean before—Castiel had been wearing it around his neck. Why hadn't it worked on Lucifer _then_?

Naomi. Naomi's possession of him had been internalized, locked in somehow. Mary'd hunted demons who had locked themselves inside the bodies of their host, preventing exorcism. If Castiel had that kind of spellwork done on him, Lucifer might have squatted inside him indefinitely, undetected.

But he'd banished Naomi—unless he'd lied about that. Which means there's no defense for him against the amulet anymore. He probably can't use Castiel anymore, either; if he tries, the one Castiel is wearing will kick him out.

She lifts the amulet, hissing when it burns her, but she doesn't drop it. Lucifer looks at it and laughs. "Nice try, girlie, but you need me in a host for that to work."

"That so?" she twirls the amulet around in a wide arc—more distraction, something to attract his eyes—while she apparates to the shattered altar. She comes up with a wooden reliquary that had survived the carnage in less than a second, then flashes away in time to avoid being caught by Lucifer's wings snapping around the altar's remains like a steel trap.

The icon had touched him before; hurt him.

_Here goes everything._

With the flames of her arms steaming and hissing from trying to hold on to something so holy, Mary wraps the amulet tight around the reliquary, tying a loose knot. Then Lucifer is on her, practically on top of her, hands clutching toward hers to remove the amulet from her hands.

That's exactly what she wanted. When his hands make contact with the reliquary, she flips the amulet's cord up and onto his hand. It misses and hits his wing instead, causing him to recoil from her as if she'd cut him mortally. With any luck, she had.

Lucifer tries to let go of the reliquary, but it's burned itself into his palms, holding them together in a perversion of the gesticulations of prayer. When he tries to shift to get the amulet off his wings, he only drags the amulet up and down along the wing. As Mary watches, the wing ignites in a burst of light. She's glad that she no longer has corneas to burn out, 'cause she's pretty sure the blast would have done it.

Lucifer collapses to both knees, one wing gone, the other afire, eyes burning yellow-gold like a vulture's or a wolf's. Lacking the support of the blown-out wing, the amulet has settled itself to Lucifer's shoulder, melding to his ghostly body, refusing to budge. When Lucifer tentatively places his opposite hand over the amulet to push it off of himself, his hand sticks to it instead.

He's on his knees in front of Mary with his arm to his shoulder. It looks like a salute, of sorts. She puts a little bit of distance between them, searching for another holy icon to use in her defense—in case she needed it.

Noticing her roving eyes, Lucifer chuckles and says, "Don't bother." He squints at her like she's too bright to look at. "Congratulations," he coughs, mocking and painful-sounding, "your soul's yours. What hold I had over you died with Casshole's mom."

Casshole? "You mean Castiel?"

"Sure," he says, sitting down flat on his ass after one of his shins vanishes briefly and surprises him. "You were never the one I was after."

She folds her arms over her chest. "Then why come after me?"

He smiles a lying fucking smile full of black, but shiny and even, teeth. "C'mon, you were easy. And I was this close," he says, pinching two fingers together, "to getting out forever. Snapping the bars on daddy's cage." He sighs.

"Is that—all you wanted? Freedom?"

He shrugs again, twitching one half-gone wing. "Isn't that what you want?"

A bright light spreads from the edges of his remaining wing like a corona—or a halo. She blinks, and he's gone.

 

***

 

When she gets back to Dean, he breaks the salt line around himself for her so that she can huddle inside it with him, still waiting for Gabriel and Castiel.

"Are you all right?" he asks, interpreting the shaken look on her face correctly.

"Fine." For now. "I think I killed it." One of her hands flickers alarmingly, and she glares at it sternly until it returns.

"Oh, God," Dean says, "you didn't kill a person, did you?"

She gives him a catlike smile. "Are ghosts people?" She'll leave the question of demons alone. Dean already has enough of those.

He blinks in surprise. "I—didn't think ghosts could kill other ghosts."

"Yeah, that was a new one on me, too." She's fading; she feels it. The fire on her skirt isn't as bright, and soon she'll flicker and go out—without any help from anyone. Looks like she may not need Father Gabriel's help. But for now, she's still here. "I think," she says, hedging even though she _knows_ , "she possessed Castiel."

Dean blinks. "She?"

"His mother." And Lucifer, again, but she doesn't mention that. She will if she has to, but she doesn't want Dean to worry about Lucifer and his distressing tendency to cling to life, or at least undeath, well past the point of sense.

"Ah," Dean says. "He told me about her." He blinks again, scrubbing crud from the corners of his eyes, and asks, "You say Cas was possessed? Ghosts can do that?"

"Yes," she says, "though generally, we don't. Messy. Gross." She had contemplated the idea, with Naomi in front of her, and found the idea abhorrent. Lucifer planting the idea makes more sense than her manipulating her own child that way of her own free will, but even so… "It's kind of like cannibalism, for living people. Not impossible. Just—highly frowned upon." Her sentences are getting shorter; she's finding it difficult to persist in one spot without vanishing. Her whole body feels like it's vibrating hard, as if the universe is trying to shake her out of existence.

 _God damn it_ , she thinks to herself. _Not yet._

She doesn't even know if Castiel made it out of the house.

"I need to move," Dean says, "or I'll fall asleep here."

"Just a few more minutes."

"Why? And don't give me that waiting for Gabriel shit; he can get out by himself, if it comes to that. Why are we sticking around?"

The 'we' makes something warm rise in her chest—they're a team, albeit not for much longer—and she says, "Castiel is coming."

Dean snorts. "All the more reason for me to go. He doesn't want to see me, remember?"

She shakes her head. "You don't know that. Naomi'd been possessing him for—" She doesn't know exactly how long, but from the feel of it—"years. But it got worse when he came home. With her gone, he should be—more like himself."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

God damn it, she likes these _feelings_ conversations about as much as Dean does—which is to say, about as well as being poked with something sharp or having a fingernail torn off—but she's running out of time here and doesn't have time for her son's emotional constipation.

Mary's confronting him now, as solid as she can be—though she doesn't feel nearly tangible enough to make him hear her. "You love him."

Dean rubs the back of his neck and keeps his eyes to the floor. "Yeah."

"Then _wait_. And take him home."

"He—won't go."

She may not have much time left with him. She needs to push, finish this. "Why?" she asks.

"He—doesn't—"

And Dean can't finish that sentence, which is just sad.

_He doesn't love me._

Her brain goes tripping backward at the absurdity of the idea. Mary wants to laugh, though there's nothing funny about this. It would be a hysterical thing, her laughter, tuned to the pitch of madness, and she becomes aware, again, of how much anger and bitterness she feels, how close to Naomi she is. Kindred spirits, feeling the bottled hatred of a lifetime.

But she also feels compassion, and Father Gabriel had warned her that Dean might not wait long enough. She remembers her sham marriage to John with an odd sort of pang. Unrequited love is a difficult sort of pain to unpack—but it's not one that Dean should be experiencing. She looks him in the eye. "Wait here. Five more minutes."

"For Gabriel?"

               She shrugs. "For whoever's coming." If Gabriel hadn't managed to budge Castiel, he may not be coming. Confident as Gabriel had seemed, he may have underestimated Castiel's desire to be punished. Mary is hopeful that freedom from Naomi's hold—not to mention Lucifer's—will provoke a desire to escape in Castiel, but she can't be sure.

As Dean blinks, a halo of torchlight illumines the far end of the corridor, revealing at least one figure in its shadow. Dean presses his back to the wall, hiding in the enclosed space, and Mary allows herself to fade to near-invisibility, staring in the same direction as Dean.

The figure is hooded, but the gleam of the torch catches and holds the impression of clear blue eyes. As he gets closer, Dean looks past Mary like she's invisible again—or like Castiel has blinded him like the sun.

"You're here," Dean breathes as he passes.

"Let's go," Castiel says softly.

"Wait," Dean says, "Where's Gabriel?"

Castiel puts one finger in front of his mouth and tilts his head toward Dean. Dean shuffles backward, making room for Castiel and his torch in the narrow space. Castiel's light leads them further into the tunnel, melting spiderwebs and glinting off dust in its wake.

Dean follows the light, silent. When they reach the end of the corridor, Castiel holds the torch aloft and they walk on foot toward the rendezvous point Gabriel had set, Dean staring at Castiel's retreating back as if pondering a riddle.

Mary hovers above them: flickering, angry, impotent.

_This isn't how it was supposed to go._

A sliver of moonlight cuts Castiel's face in half. They're at the other opening of the tunnel, clear space and the night ahead, and Dean catches Castiel's shoulder before he takes another step. "Cas, wait up." He doesn't want to have this confrontation in the open. Mary understands why. Exposure reminds her of how it feels to discuss her own emotions and wants; it makes her feel naked. Apparently, Dean feels the same.

"Are you—" Dean swallows thickly. "Are you coming with me? Once we're out of here?"

Castiel's shoulders go rigid, but he doesn't push Dean off. "Maybe. If you'll let me, after—" Castiel half-shrugs, half-shudders, and doesn't finish his sentence. The cutting quality of the light bisects Dean's hand where it lies, leaving half the hand in shadow.

Dean snorts. "Yeah. About that." He lets his hand drop. "Are you—feeling okay?"

"About what? You? Myself?"

"Both?" Dean ventures, about as lost in this conversation as a child in a corn maze.

Castiel sighs, then turns to face Dean in the half-darkness. "I feel better, leaving the house," he says. "I can't really explain it. I haven't been—clear—mentally, I mean—since before Lucifer. I feel clear now."

Dean nods understanding. "Mom killed a ghost," she said.

Castiel's eyebrows rise. "I wasn't aware that was possible."

"She said it was your mom," Dean says. "She was possessing you."

Castiel shakes his head, half-smiling as if what Dean is saying is ridiculous, but then his mouth falls open on a gasp. "The ashes," Castiel breathes, and there's real color in his face now. For the first time since Mary'd caught sight of him behind that shack door, he looks like he wants to live. "Lucifer drank my mother's ashes. I told you that, once." He shakes his head. "I'd forgotten, but it explains," he says, spreading his hands wide, "almost everything." He sighs and runs one hand through dusty hair. "Forgive me," he says. "I wasn't myself."

"And now you are?" Dean asks, obviously wanting to be really clear on this point.

Castiel frowns. "I think so," he says. "You have to understand. I spent half my life as Lucifer's puppet, and the other half, my mother's. I don't know what it's like to be my own person." His gaze affixes Dean with a dedication like ardency; moonlight dances in his eyes. "Will you help me?"

Dean swallows a prominent lump in his throat, and nods. "Yeah," he says. "I can do that."

Castiel grabs Dean in a one-armed hug so fast it knocks the wind out of him. The torch nearly catches Dean's sleeve, but Castiel diverts it away from them both, holding light over their heads like a beacon of knowledge. They stand that way, two arms locked together and breathing the same air, for a long moment that stretches. Then Dean chuckles and shifts his feet, and they keep moving.

They go home.


	46. Envoi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Envoi: farewell, conclusion.

 

It takes Dean and Castiel most of the night to get back to Lawrence. The sky threatens rain, lightning flashing in thick clouds, but nothing falls. The thunder is distant and rumbling, making the earth shake. In the variable light, Mary catches glimpses of herself fading, but as far as she can tell, she's still here.

Gabriel and Samandriel catch up to them at dawn, riding double abroad a huge red mare. Gabriel checks the horse when they get close, and they dismount to share a breakfast of bread and cheese and dried meat. Dean thanks Gabriel in a perfunctory sort of way, eyes flicking between Castiel and Mary as if trying to form connections.

Samandriel takes it upon himself to divvy up the food such that Dean and Castiel get the lion's share—an act that endears him greatly to Dean, but earns him a frown of disapproval from Gabriel. Once the food is allocated, Castiel says, "Thank you," to their co-conspirators. To Samandriel, he adds, "I don't understand why you came back."

Samandriel shrugs around a mouthful of bread. "Naomi wasn't just a bitch to you, y'know." That statement, coming from someone from such a roundly innocent, baby-immaculate face stuns everyone so much that Mary knows it's true. Naomi Sr. must have harmed Samandriel in some way. Mary wishes she could kill her again.

"So," Mary says, breaking the tense silence, "I suppose that reaction means I'm next to go."

Castiel and Samandriel blink in confusion; they can hear her, but not see her, apparently. Gabriel snorts and points her out. "Mary Winchester. Ghost accomplice. This one's mom," he says, pointing to Dean.

Samandriel nods. "What does she mean, 'next'?"

"I guess she took care of Naomi's ghost for us," Gabriel says. "Thanks for that, by the way." He squints at her. "Are you—okay?"

She shakes her head, but says nothing. She closes her eyes. "Finish it."

Gabriel looks at her with a little frown. "Sorry, can't help you. Too far gone."

Her shoulders hunch. Flames spill onto her hands, consuming nothing. Flickering. Spluttering. Petering out. "You promised."

He nods. "You'll be at peace—soon. But," he says, waving her off, "I'm not in an exorcising sort of mood."

Dean shoots Gabriel a look that is half-grateful and half-confused.

Mary asks, "How long do I have?"

"Not long. A few hours, maybe."

It's enough. She wants to make sure Dean and Castiel get home safely before she says goodbye.

 

***

 

They get back to Lawrence approaching noon. Dean, Castiel, Gabriel and Samandriel line up outside the door to the Winchester house like a sorry sort of parade and are greeted by a disgruntled-looking Bobby. Turns out Ellen and Bobby have taken up temporary residence at the Winchester household in Dean's absence, helping Sam and Jessica care for the baby and the house.

The best thing about this turn of events is that lunch is already on the table when they arrive. Mary watches Dean and Castiel, half-starved from the Milton diet, wolf down pieces of mutton almost as large as their heads. She swallows her own sense of gnawing hunger—she misses food, but she doesn't think that's causing the pit in her gut.

As they eat, Mary becomes obsessed with time. It's been a few hours and they're home; shouldn't she be disappearing right now? She thinks she might blink and miss the snuffing out of her own consciousness.

That doesn't happen. She can't explain it. _Ghosts and their issues_ , she thinks, like the hunter she used to be. If she's sticking around, it's because of unfinished business…but _what?_

When Dean and Castiel finish eating—Castiel finishes seconds ahead of Dean—they hold hands under the table. Bobby notices—his eyebrows shoot up in surprise—but no one says anything. Jessica full-on grins, and the expression spreads from her to the baby to Sam as they all notice. Ellen hmphs and pours herself a glass of whiskey even though it's the middle of the afternoon.

It looks like Dean and Castiel, whatever their relationship entails, are accepted here. She hadn't expected anything different, but the confirmation makes something in her mind relax. She's glad she's here to witness this.

She's happy to be home.

She still doesn't vanish.

After that little display, Gabriel and Samandriel try to convince Castiel and Dean to at least take a nap, for Christ's sake, but the sun chooses that moment to peek behind threatening rain clouds. With the weather clearing up and work to do, Dean's not to be deterred—and Castiel seems stuck to his side like glue for the moment, despite the raccoon-like rings surrounding his eyes. Sam  insists on tagging along with them like an overeager puppy, untended hair falling in his eyes, making him look so much like the baby Mary had lost that her flames constrict around her.

The moment passes. She follows Dean, out of habit and because failure to follow him now is painful in a way that's almost physical, like a purpling bruise. They go back to Sarah Blake's, and it's a good thing they've got Sam with them because it looks like she's created enough glass to dwarf a small army. Dean gathers about a dozen panels, careful not to cut himself on the edges, then moves out of the way to let Sam and Castiel take their turns. They lug their haul to the center of a wide-open space that used to belong to the Miltons, but which now seems to be abandoned. The ground is somewhat wet from rain, but it's been so cold that it's not muddy. The sun makes valiant efforts to cut through cloud cover.

Though the sky roils ominously, it doesn't rain.

A little before supper, Bobby joins them in moving more panels of glass. Mary has counted hundreds of panels by now, almost a thousand, and Bobby's wagon padded with straw is capable of pulling almost two dozen panels in a single trip. The piles of stacked glass approach hip level, threatening to totter; Sam, Dean and Castiel are forced to expand their workspace.

After supper, as the sun is setting behind patchy cloud cover, Ellen and Jessica come to help move glass from the other glassblower's—Madison's. They also bring leftover mutton, rolls, and potatoes baked over hot coals that Sam and Dean eat on the move. Castiel, though, decides to take a break, sitting cross-legged between two piles of glass, the reflected light ringing his body around as if he was a celestial body and the glass was a ring of stardust.

Garth comes just before dark with a lantern, and Henriksen and some of the other apprentices come with hanging lights and lanterns that they ring around the stacks of glass. The panels take on an eerie look in the light, like the sheen of moonlight on metal, beautiful and sharp.

At moonrise John Winchester himself shows up with soldering tools and a portable anvil, plus some other equipment for smithcraft, and gets to work putting panels together. While he does that, Sam and Dean dig entrenching lines that Castiel draws and cuts to precise angles, hoe digging into soft earth.

By the time they're ready to lay down the first line of connected panels, it's full dark with a bright moon, and damn near the entire town has shown up to help. The first line sinks almost entirely into the soft ground, but that had been expected; Bobby organizes teams to pull up a cornerstone and anchoring lines to hold the first long panel in place, connecting the second set at the corner and progressing around, shoring up each corner as they round it.

They almost forget to put in space for a door. Castiel reminds them. John has to resolder an entire line, but that's all right. The one he already did is the right width for building the greenhouse up.

 It takes most of the night to build up a single wall. When John gets too tired to continue, Sam and Dean hold a pan in place while Castiel and Gabriel solder and Samandriel prepares the edges of each panel for treatment. It's hot work—Ellen's sleeve catches fire when she presses against the tub holding the molten solder; she puts it out in the water barrel next to the fire.

When most of the wall is built, Dean puts out the fire while Sam starts digging hedgerows, preparing, Mary realizes, for planting. It's spring. 

Time. She has not paid much attention to it in years, but now, with so little left and no control over when she'll leave, it's all she can think about.

The sun illuminates her from behind, starting to rise, and maybe it's real (though it's probably sense memory): for an instant, she feels warmth, heat, but it's not like being consumed. It's like sun in summer, a catalyst for reawakening life.

Castiel had always been a good friend to her. Death hadn't changed that. And as she looks on over her son and her friend and what remains of Lawrence after fires and Lucifer and tragedy as they build something beautiful and necessary, she feels a twinge of quiet, affirming pride. Without understanding how she knows it, she feels that this is it: the moment she's been waiting to see.

Dean, Castiel and Lawrence are safe. She doesn't need to protect them anymore.

"Mary?" She hears the voice of her own mother behind her. She closes her eyes.

She's gone before she feels it.

In one of the half-dug trenches next to the wall of shimmering glass, a full-body shiver goes through Dean. Castiel pauses to rub his shoulders briefly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, leaning back a little into the touch and staring at the sunrise.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and that's the end. I seriously did not expect it to be this long. Forgive me? I can't write anything short…


End file.
